


Nymph's Haven

by EdilMayHampsen



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Fantasy, Greek Mythology - Freeform, I didnt realize how gay I made gerry and martin so its an ot3 now sorry if you dont like that, I really hope this doesn't count as vore, M/M, Minor character changes to reflect nymph personalities, Slow burn I don't know how many words, Sweet sweet forest times, The archival assistants are forest nymphs, Third Person Limited, Time is a social construct and not for nymphs, and that is openly talked about, but not enough to be ooc, but oliver is a fungus, character dynamics are messed with but you'll get it, clueless!jon but that's just normal jon, fluff and plot, forest nymph au, no fear entities all my homies hate fear entities, or loosely based on greek mythology, tags are changing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:07:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25435114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdilMayHampsen/pseuds/EdilMayHampsen
Summary: Martin grew up in this forest, he knows it's ins and outs, it's customs and it's people, (Though not it's history) so when a rude stranger enters for reasons unknown, it's his job to deal with things. Even if he'd much rather sleep.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, More to be added - Relationship, Sasha James & Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker, Sasha James/Tim Stoker, lots of friendship in general
Comments: 53
Kudos: 102





	1. In which a dumb man does several dumb things but is sort of charming about it

**Author's Note:**

> This doesn't start in media res, If you'd like it to, skip to the first "---" about a thousand words in. But the start is fun (I wrote it so I know) and you'll be confused without it.
> 
> TW:  
> -multiple, casual mentions of death and murder  
> -non-graphic injury  
> -blink-and-you'll-miss-it implied fatphobia/slutshaming  
> -a lot of general bastard-being  
> -a bit of cursing because I just can't help myself.
> 
> Those sound lot worse than it actually is.

It’s been a while since Martin thought about his age. Back when he was a sapling, maybe? And even then his thoughts leaned far closer to considering his very existence. He was a brighter shade of green then, back when he didn't insist on taking in so much sunlight. Anabelle likes to pick on him for it, and he almost has the guts to tell her she can make her web in someone else's crown. But he never does.

Time moves slowly in his forest, measured only by the constant flow of seasons and sugar through his xylem. He tends to sleep whole years away, or that's what Anabelle says when he wakes up. She tends to lie. But time rises and falls like the river through the seasons and Martin isn't a sapling anymore. Soon he's more than a sprinkling of sprigs reaching up through ash. There was death in that soil, but it fed them all. The circuit, the network of old roots that knew they were dying, and the fungus that would survive–Martin named it Oliver, which sounds so silly now, it probably had its own name before–Oliver, guided them to each other.

Sasha was closest to the river. She was the shortest of all of them, having put all her energy into rooting closer. The first time she touched Martin she offered so much. It flowed through Martin's roots and up to through his stem to his leaves. Martin, blushed green and the closest to the sun, sent her liquid light right back.

Then they found Tim. He was small, half wilted, curled over to look at the dehydrated shell of another sapling. His brother, Tim explained. There wasn't enough in the soil for them both. Oliver sapped the last of it away. His name would have been Danny. 

Tim shared his air, he took it in in gasps and heaves and pumped it back at Martin and Sasha with a vengeance. Tim gave like a man in debt, more than he could give to Danny. Anabelle hatched shortly after, insisting he should keep his stomata closed. Martin wanted to crush her.

He couldn't, at the time. 

There was a butterfly, not the kind with a name, but a monarch. It landed on Martin's leaves so he adjusted to capture the light bouncing off it. Orange. Such a rare and beautiful sight among the green. Martin felt four legs lift as it reared to leave but he didn't want it to go. All Martin wanted was to chase that beautiful sight, hold it forever. Martin didn’t want anyone to leave him.

With a flit of wings, the monarch jumped into the air, with a shudder of trunk and branch, Martin stumbled out after it.

He had hands. And feet. and legs and the works. Oliver told him the names of each limb not by inserting the knowledge up through his roots, but by  _ speaking _ .

Oliver was brown-skinned, a  _ man _ , he explains, or rather, appearing as one. And Martin was a child. Oliver pulled him to his "feet" and took him to see Tim and Sasha, the butterfly long forgotten. 

Sasha was the tallest child, with strands of "Hair" that coiled down her back. Martin thought it was unfair, until she figured that she was the longest from root to peak, and therefore the tallest, _ duh _ .

Tim came in last height-wise. Oliver insisted that his missing teeth would grow in, yes, like roots, and that Tim would get big, like Oliver, with time.

Oliver sat them in the clearing between their three trees and taught them what it means to be nymphs. The first of this generation, though there would be more. A maple named Melanie was showing her first leaf, and  _ no _ they cannot speak to her yet, she is too small. 

Nymphs, Oliver explains, come from trees. They  _ are _ trees. 

Sasha finds this exceedingly obvious, and says so.

But nymphs also come from other things like the fungus that Oliver is. But only some have names, and even fewer have faces.

Martin pointed to Oliver's face then, just to confirm. His face was squishy. Martin laughed, and then, surprised, began to cry. Which made him cry harder.

Quickly, Oliver explained what laughing and crying was and that Martin shouldn't do it too much. He needs his water.

Tim wanted to try crying too, but ended up laughing instead. Which made Sasha and Martin laugh and they laughed until they cried again.

Then Oliver teaches them how to play. Tag and then hide and seek. And when their “muscles” feel something called “ache”, Oliver tells them they mustn't wander too far from the tree, or else they get weak. 

"But once you get big enough, I'll show you to the river. He's very nice."

Gerry was nice, he was young, like them. The old river, one named Mary who was not nice, dried up when the old trees died. Oliver wouldn't say why.

But they could play as much as they wanted, so they needn't worry. To celebrate their meeting a new friend, Tim made up a new game by the name of “Hit Oliver”. A raging success.

They only grew, and Tim reached higher than any of them could imagine, looming over Sasha in any form, and making even Martin look up a little, even though his tree reached highest.

Melanie was bigger now, Martin thought of her as a little sister. One that liked to snap twigs off or her crown and sharpen them into points, chipping off her bark with a wince. She started simple, a five-pointed star on the base of her trunk. Martin found out when she came running to him in a clearing, startling the rabbit Martin was holding away. She pulled up the hem of her dress and showed off the five-pointed star in dark brown on her skin.

Tim got the head of a fox carved under a branch, where it showed on his shoulder. Sasha opted for a spider. On her dark skin, it appeared in light brown. It took plenty of experimenting, but Oliver taught them how to make a fire carefully enough to burn marks into the rocks along Gerry's banks. Each stone took ages, but the black eye-marking on each of his joints made the others seethe with jealousy. 

Martin tried. He wanted a butterfly, something to commemorate their coming to be. He watched as Melanie brought down her rock for the first strike. Martin cried out. It was pain like he had never felt.

He ended up with a single solid mark on his chest, and a story that Tim would never let him live down.

It was about them that the storm came.

Storms were nothing new. They came in droves every summer and made Gerry's hair go long and shiny. Storms were usually revitalizing, sacred, they were what allowed the forest to live and thrive. But not this time. The nymphs could feel the thunder shake the ground, Martin and Tim curled together as the girls desperately worked to keep the constant growth of Gerry's hair in check, watching as the river creeped up and out of it's banks.

Oliver was usually there to comfort them through scary, new things, but that day when Martin reached for him through the root system he was busy assuaging the fears of all the other trees. Energy and sugar flicked through the network as Oliver tried desperately to plan for the drainage they would need. "Root rot", whatever that was, killed. But the rain began to let up a little, and the forest breathed a sigh of relief. Martin felt almost safe. 

Then the lighting struck.

It was far greater pain than the mark on his chest, it curled through Martin's human form and made him cry out, tensing around Tim without control of his limbs. His vision went a hot blue-white, skin sizzling. When Martin looked to his tree, it was cleaved in two. the top branches shriveled and blackened. The nymphs could only watch as Martin’s largest branch creaked, and crashed to the forest floor. They tried their hardest to put it back on, taking turns to comfort Martin through his aftershocks of pain, but everywhere they grasped the branch crumbled to ask.

It took Oliver's emergence the next morning to assure the five nymphs that no one was dead or dying, he'd know, and a lot of shaking fists and yelling into the air to bring Micheal down from his clouds for an apology. The clouds here were volatile, and, though polite, so was Micheal. Gerry dismissed him shortly after he promised never to strike a nymph without permission, as that was always the common curesty, and to never,  _ ever _ make him overflow again. Or else. That made Micheal falter, he swore quickly and retreated back to the sky.

Gerry admitted he didn't know what the or else meant. But they were both water nymphs, essentially, so he could probably do something. 

So now Martin had a light scar that cleaved him in half from head to navel, but that was okay. With Sasha's clever thinking, very many rocks, and a few years, Martin had a physical room within his tree, much larger on the inside than it should be, somewhere halfway metaphysical.. Unlike their mental homes, where they could each other through the connection in their roots. This was different. Martin had something special, just for him, and he intended to get full use out of it, curling up inside to sleep.

So the years passed, whether one or many, and Martin remained content in his place.

\---

"Martin!" Tim yells, running through the undergrowth "Martin, get up! There's a man here! A real--a human man come  _ on _ !"

"Hhhyuh?" Martin groans as Tim beats on the outside of his trunk, "Tim I was sleeping, you know I need my--ough! Get off of me you maniac!"

"No!" Tim insists, grinning from where he pins Martin to the floor, "Someone is here. Someone new, and I don't mean any ol’ sapling, no siree! Someone  _ really  _ new. Get up, you’ll want to see this."

"I can't get up if you're on top of me, Tim."

"You could if you weren't so weak." Tim pokes out his tongue, but rolls off of Martin and onto the floor. "Hurry up, you might miss him!" He hops to his feet, and out the woven covering of Martin's door.

The last time someone new came around, it was Annabelle. Even that was a period ago, and largely unpleasant. She descends onto Martin’s nose as he sits up, pulling his arms above his head to stretch out an ache. 

“How long has it not-been Anabelle?”

“I’m positive that you’ve been asleep for exactly one hundred years.” She says, rubbing her front legs together.

“Mmm yes, very helpful.” He deadpans. Martin plucks her thread from his ceiling and tosses her to a corner of the room.

"Martin!" Tim says from the doorway “I’m not kidding. Hop to!”

"I'm coming."

Martin hardly emerges from his tree before Tim grabs his wrist, pulling Him along. He isn't as fast as Tim and Sasha, Martin's always been the calm one, slow and cuddly enough to convince nearly every animal of his trustworthiness without a second thought, but he keeps up well enough. 

It feels nice to run after his nap, feeling his body go from near-stasis to the heart-and-foot-beating exhilaration. Martin considers pushing himself past Tim, calling 'you're it!', but it doesn’t seem like a good time. Tim doesn’t glance back even once as they make their way through the cool daylight. He figures exhausting himself isn’t worth it, not with this “Human Man” waiting for them up ahead.

Martin looks up at the canopy and raises his hand to greet it. A mimic of it’s gentle waving in the wind. The shade is pale today, with the sun bright overhead, so Manuela won't be appearing. These days she fades in and out of existence. Oliver assures she'll be a more permanent presence as the forest's roof grows thick with leaves, darkening its innards. Martin mumbles a hello to her anyways, promising to keep her updated about the day’s excitement. He nods to the birches that lean his way, scratches his finger-tips on the shrubbery and scares a mouse with his footfalls. It squeaks, joining the chorus of tweeting and chittering and fills Martin's sharp ears at all times. 

Martin takes an inhale in every way, eyes and nose and ears and the feeling on Tim’s hand on his wrist. This is where he belongs. It is a good day to be a nymph.

They come up behind Sasha, and Tim, without slowing his pace, ducks into a roll until he sits beside her. She pulls at her five-stranded braid, woven in with the green of Tim’s vines. Martin crouches on her opposite side. She gestures to be quiet and look, her movements short and serious even though her eyes don’t stop smiling. Martin raises an eyebrow, but sticks his face through the gap in the bushes.

The view isn’t very interesting, a tower of stuffed hide some five feet tall on stilts that look far too thin to support it, but then it spins, and the silts reveal themselves as two legs. An ant of a man, small and busy to no apparent goal, leans forward under the weight of the things on his back. He walks with clumsy feet, face stretched taught in irritation, and stops every few strides, pointing at trees as if accusing them of something, then scratching a few more strands out of the already wrecked bun at the top of his head.

"He could use a comb," Sasha whispers. 

They lean in shoulder-to-shoulder and wait for the man to do anything interesting. Anabelle had bitten Martin when he first took her onto his leaf, This man only stumbles, and scratches his head, and stumbles again, mumbling what sounds like a near constant stream of curses. 

“ _ Fuck! _ ” Tim says “That one’s new.”

They all suck in a breath when the man turns in their direction. He looks like a dog sniffing through the brush, pressing something higher on his hooked nose. Two pieces of glass suspended in front of his eyes. “I could have sworn I heard…” 

The three Nymphs don’t dare breathe as the man’s hand thrusts through their bush, waving wildly. Five well-groomed fingers make a grab for Martin’s nose, and he scuttles backward just in time, going cross-eyed. The man groans and the hand retreats. “Nothing!” He says “Well, at least this is new.” 

And with a  _ crack _ he snaps a branch off the bush, Martin feels his face go hot, Sasha and Tim sporting matching wide eyes. The man tucks the branch into an outside pocket of his pants. He huffs one last time, and trudges behind the curtain of green.

Martin sputters. “He did  _ not _ . He didn’t! He just snapped it right off-”   
  
“Without even asking!” Sasha says, shaking her head. 

Martin decides he doesn’t like this “Human Man” very much. He frowns. Who needs to carry that much  _ stuff _ ? That branch was too woody for a crown, makes a frankly terrible tea, and the man grabbed too few of them to possibly craft with. Not only did he not ask, he puts the bushes' sacrifice to waste. 

"That," Martin gestures "Was not worth waking up for."

“I think I hate him.” Sasha agrees.

Tim throws himself onto his back, "I mean, yeah. But it's not my fault he's boring, Oliver told me humans can burn forests down and stuff. They can be scary!"

“Sure, he was destructive, but not the fun kind. I’m going back to bed.”

Sasha curls up beside Tim "You've been asleep for approximately forever. We missed you."

"No you didn’t. I don’t know what you get away with when I’m out, but Anabelle assures me it’s  _ interesting _ . Thank you for your precise timekeeping, though! It really helps clear things up."

"Your welcome." 

Tim’s snickers fall quiet against Sasha’s lips. Martin takes this as his queue to leave.

He trapezes back to his tree, glad he doesn't have to keep pace with either of the other nymphs. Anabelle scuttles along one of his lower branches, watching as Martin considers how best to sleep uninterrupted. 

"You  _ could _ hide in branches like I do." She says "If you can manage to pull yourself up with all that extra weight."

"Go away Anabelle." Martin groans.

She ducks around his branch and back into view again. "If I remember correctly, you gave me permission to stay here when I was a wee hatchling, and you haven't taken permission away since."

"If _ I _ remember correctly," Martin snaps, "It was just this morning I threw you across the room. So I said  _ go away _ ."

Anabelle chortles as she crawls into a crevice between his bark. A chills runs down Martin's spine. He hates when she does that.

Though she may have a point.

Martin circles his base. He knows exactly which branch is low enough to reach without too much difficulty, and still wide enough to carry his weight, but it doesn't dismiss the anxiety of getting up there in the first place. Martin has climbed other trees before, sure. Sasha taught him how in the low branches of Tim's weeping willow, but he's never tried it on himself. Martin is a big tree. He can probably handle it, and there's no better time to try.

Martin has to bring his leg out, around, and up to take the first step, and it strains the front of his pelvis. With a few testing hops, he manages to heave himself onto the first branch. He can feel cramping flares in his leg as the branch groans with his weight. Martin's arms do most of the work for this next bit and he's glad for it. He's always been stronger on his top half than his bottom.

(Tim and Sasha would argue that Martin's bottom was by no means his weakest feature.)

Martin's tree reaches the tallest out of all of them; the sycamore reflecting the human form: wide, tall, and strong. His roots don't reach out far. It isn't in his nature to try and connect to others, not like Tim who reaches out in every direction, up and into Martin's space. He appreciates it, though. It would get so lonely without him and Sasha there. Despite Martin's height, he only climbs about fifteen feet. He can see the ground but it's much harder to see him.

He settles his hips into the junction between branch and trunk, pointedly ignoring Anabelle in his peripheral vision, rubbing her front legs even faster than usual. It's nice. Martin always feels more calmer when he's close to his tree. The gentle rocking of his branches in the wind, the creaking sound it causes, the noise of the critters playing idly in his branches and, yes, even the tiny footfalls of Anabelle as she weaves a fractal image between nearby branches.

Martin feels warmth creep in from his toes up to his cheeks, and lets his lashes pull together. With a smile still on his lips, Martin falls asleep.

He looks around, feeling far too lucid for his tastes. He recognises the wood patterned walls and woven scrap projects littering the floor. The atrium. A metaphysical reflection of the three nymph's clearing. Sasha's Crabapple blooms make up a third of the ceiling, and Tim's vines curtain his fraction in. Martin's portion is less adorned, decorated only by the constant, silent fall of whirlybirds. 

Behind Tim's curtains, as with all of them, is an archway leading deeper into his tree. If you followed through Martin's space you'd find Melanie. Nearly the whole forest is connected this way, with Oliver underground bridging the gaps between clearings and providing passage over the chasm Gerry's river makes. It's where Martin goes to wander when he lets his more human form dissolve back into wood, though he can still feel himself sitting somewhere in the branches, if only partially. The mental image of bodyless legs sticking out from Martin's trunk almost makes him laugh.

But he doesn't wasn't to be here right now. He's too easily found. It's not like he can sleep either. With the sun still up outside, his tree refuses to feel drowsy. Martin sighs, and bends to grab a circle of tulip fibre, sitting himself for a game of cat's cradle. 

Martin spaces out as he gets used to the motion, fingers flying, letting the string drop loose before looping it back around his fingers with the speed of muscle memory. Hooking his fingers, pulling, flicking his wrist to let the twine fall where he needs it. He hopes Sasha and Tim are too busy making out on the forest floor to come looking for him. Hook, pull, flick. Not that anything would stop Oliver from coming up if he wanted to. Hook, pull, flick. Or Melanie from running up to tackle him from behind. Hook, pull, flick. But Melanie is busy on one of her missions, what was it this time? Hook, pull, flick. She mentioned wanting to count the foxes. Hook, pull, flick. Alice wouldn't be happy about that. Hook, pull, flick. Or maybe she'd make a game of it.

"Ow! Anabelle!" Martin reaches to swipe at his neck, but only tugs his hands around. He fumbles to pull his fingers out of the Cat's Cradle as the tickling feeling gets more intense. Anabelle seems intent on annoying him lately, but there’s no teasing voice in his ear. Martin knows why as soon as he sets a now-free hand on his neck. Anabelle isn't there. Martin groans when he realizes something else, something bigger, is nipping at the outside of his tree. 

Martin hates moving his branches, things snap on the inside and take forever to heal properly, but if he finds that human man trying to take a piece of him, Martin thinks it may be worth it to strangle him.

Martin forms again sitting where he'd meant to nap, only to get a bundle of feathers to the face. The crow flies away to get a good look at him, cawing in surprise, before landing in Martin's lap. It gets three nips at his ear before Martin has to hold its wings down. He coos to it until it stops bristling, but it doesn't quiet, jabbing its beak pointedly towards the ground.

Martin holds it up to look into it's two black eyes. "If I look I have to let go of you. And you have my attention now, so you have to stop biting or I won't look. Okay?" 

He takes the soft caw as a yes.

The crow flies to the next branch over, leaning to peer at the ground. He follows the point of her beak.

It's that man again, pacing nervously around the stuff he's dropped in the middle of the clearing. His morning jacket is now tied around his waist, the sleeves of his top pushed up to reveal frail arms sheened with sweat.

He doesn't look like he ought to be travelling alone, Martin notes. He just looks silly.

The hair that was once in a bun has long since escaped, frizzed in a way that suggests he may or may not have had an unfriendly encounter with one of the animals, but judging by the unbroken skin, it wasn't Alice. He probably forgot to say hello. Very rude. Martin tuts.

The man startles, and turns towards Martin, eyes flittering around in his direction. He knows he's concealed in his crown of leaves, but still tenses. The Man's eyes aren't unusual per se, the same dark browns that Sasha and Martin share, but there's an analytical sense to them that makes Martin feel studied. Martin hides his face behind the crow, she isn't happy to be held again.

The man approaches Martin's base with purpose. He reaches up and plucks a leaf off of one of the lower branches, making Martin squeak.

He trots quickly back to his back to his pack, pulling out a sheet and a stick quite like the ones Melanie used to char rocks for Gerry's markings. He begins to sketch the leaf. Martin puts the crow down (she returns to her branch gratefully) and leans over to watch. The man draws with incredible speed. smearing the dark dust on his sheet to match the coloring of Martin's leaves. He mumbles something about "Species". Martin isn't sure what that word means, but he's almost positive his current species is irritated. 

There isn't any reason to pull Martin's leaf off like that...but the drawing is accurate, even if in grayscale. Martin watches as the man includes even the bug-eaten spot that sits close to the petiole. He gave that bit to a caterpillar recently, those small sacrifices mustn't be overlooked. Martin takes pride in his niche, feeding the forest around him. He still doesn't like the man, but he shows a distinct respect for Martin's purpose. The leaf is a small transgression, it can be forgiven.

Martin feels his face go red as the man tucks the lead into his pack. He clears his throat in embarrassment.

The Man's head snaps up, and Martin startles so violently his hips slip off of the branch he rest's on.

Martin bites his tongue on a shriek as he twists to wrap his arms around the branch, slamming into his trunk with an "oof" as he clings on for dear life. 

He presses his eyes shut tight. Deciding that if he can't see the man, the man can't see him. Probably. He pedals his legs in a pathetic attempt to get a foothold. It seems like ages, though Martin is terrible with time, until he gathers the courage to look down. Oliver grins up at him, holding a few greying dreadlocks out of his face. The Human man, and his bags, are nowhere to be seen.

"Sasha tells me you met a human!" He calls "Is that why you're about to fall down, little nymph?"

"No!” Martin huffs “Of course not."

The crow lands on Martin's head and caws its suspicion.

"Oh shush you! You can come to my tree and be pretty, but not petulant."

"It's the  _ crow _ being petulant?" Oliver asks.

Martin manages to find the right position, letting his arms fall loose and landing with a thump, The crow flies off for a moment, before returning to its previous perch "Yes." Martin puffs out his chest "And her name is Jane I think."

"Really?" Oliver offers Jane his hand. She remains firmly on Martin's head.

_ Caw! _

"That means no thank you. I'm pretty sure all crows in the forest are Janes. But they're all different Janes."

Oliver hums, "They used to be Johns, I think. My memory isn't what it used to be. Walk with me?"

Martin obliges, feeling Jane's talons sink deeper into his hair "Oh, don't be humble. You know  _ everything _ ."

Oliver raises an eyebrow. "Everything? Child, you could not be more wrong. I know that which I have seen and those which have died. If I knew everything I wouldn't have to warn you about the man in our forest."

"Warn me?" Martin almost scoffs, "He hardly seems interesting. Just confused. And sad. And more than a bit rude."

"Yes, well, humans don't know our customs, so don't judge him too harshly. I just worry if he keeps this up for a few more days he might die here—human death is an unpleasant process you see—and we still don't know if he's brought a firestarter. Or if he knows how to make a safe fire at all."

"It's pretty hard for things to catch here." Martin quietly asks a perennial for one of its blooms, figuring he'll make a flower crown while he's out and about "It's the wet season, yes? And even if it wasn't."

"That's what they said before."

Martin doesn't respond. Oliver gets like that sometimes. He never means to talk about  _ before _ , but when it slips no amount of prying will get more questions answered. Martin isn't sure he wants to know what happened before all of this. It doesn't sound like much fun.

"Well why are you talking to me about it? Tim and Sasha are the ones who thought he was  _ soooo _ important."

"Tim and Sasha would bite him to see how he tastes. And Melanie just likes to bite."

Martin considers "That's very rude if you don't ask first." He reaches for another flower, a pretty yellow.

Oliver sighs, "As far as nymphs go, you're about the best I'm going to get. I would like you to keep an eye on him."

"Me?" Martin sputters " Wha-Why? Why can't you do it?"

"I tend to wait for the things I dislike to die."

"You still come around with Tim here."

Oliver guffaws "Point taken! Though Tim won't taste too bad in the long run."

"You can't just talk about eating people Oliver, very,  _ very _ rude!"

Oliver throws his hands up in surrender.

"But fine. I'll watch him or whatever. But I'm not making any promises. If I take a nap and he's, poof, gone?” Martin throws out his fingers in emphasis “Not my problem."

"Of course, little nymph. I'd expect nothing less."

Jane nips at Martin's ear. "What? What? stop biting me! Why are you-" She dodges Martin's swats to keep up her attack "You horrible bird. shoo. shoo!" 

With a caw that sounds suspiciously like laughter, Jane takes flight. Martin sinks his feet into the soft and rocky bank of the river. 

"Gerard! Come here, will you?" Oliver calls.

Gerry is surprised first by the crow that comes at his face, and then again by Oliver's calling. He shrieks, and can't pull his hands out of his hair in time to catch himself. He slips from his rock and into the river with a splash, dissolving.

"What?" Gerry snaps, face flushed, from where he reappears on Oliver's other side. Martin bites his lip to hold in his laughter. "I was doing my hair."

"Clearly." Oliver says, he tugs on the damp, half-finished braid sticking up from Gerry's head. Gerry swats him away. "You look good!"

Martin ducks under Oliver's arm to scoop Gerry into a hug.

"Oh! Martin, hi!" Gerry gasps, Martin forcing the air from his lungs.

Martin presses his small bouquet into Gerry's hand and pulls him down by the arms, wrapping his now free hands around Gerry's crown to get an estimate of his head size. The flower crown was meant for himself, but Gerry looks extra pale today–it's probably been a while since the last rain–Martin figures it would brighten him up. 

Gerry lets himself get pulled around, standing half-stooped when Martin finally lets him go. "You done?"

"Mhm! I went with purple and yellow today. It'll look good on you."

"Everything looks good on me." Gerry says, giving a twirl "Well maybe not my hair right now, but, yeah,  _ almost _ everything." He stops spinning when he catches Oliver's amused look "What's up?"

"There's a human here now. In the forest. Have you heard?"

"Is that what all the fuss was? The system got a bit greedy with taking water this morning. Like hoarding it. Didn't feel great."

Oliver hums in sympathy, watching as Martin settles himself with his feet in the water, flowers on his lap. Jane, having had her fun, returns to the flock. He pulls his lips taught and runs a hand over his dreads.

"You dress will get wet."

"And then it will dry." Martin replies, not looking up from his work.

"Hmm, yes." Oliver takes a breath "Gerard, do you know what a human is?"

"I know it's loud and nobody likes it." Gerry says, going to sit besides Martin. He reaches into his water, a bit shallower than usual. "I know it's exhausting."

"A human is like a nymph. They look like us, but they don't have trees, or rivers, or anything, really. They can be very dangerous."

"Why are you telling me this?" Gerry asks "Is something wrong?"

"Yes and no. This one seems mostly harmless, Martin here is going to watch them for me-"

"Martin's strong-"

"Thanks."

"-but stronger than you? Why don't you do it?"

Oliver shrugs "Humans tas- they're unpleasant. To me."

"That seems to be the general consensus." Gerry seems tense, so Martin kicks him under the water. There's no kick back.

"Indeed, well. As a river nymph you have certain, shall I say, privileges. A bit of power Mary took at her leisure." Oliver says.

Gerry knits his eyebrows "I'm not Mary."

"But you are very similar. See, the human needs water, like the rest of us, to survive. If he takes any without asking, it's within your rights to kill him."

"To wha-Oliver!"

"Drowning was your mother's preferred method."

"I'm not going to, what's the word,  _ murder _ ? I'm not going to murder someone for being a bit rude."

"I dunno..." Martin pipes in, weaving a mum through his chain, "If he was gone I wouldn't have to watch him. I could take another nap."

"You want me to commit a murder because you're a little sleepy?"

"It sounds a lot worse than it is when you say it that way."

Oliver laughs "I swear you nymphs are all the same. I'm glad, though. Humans don't die inconspicuously. It's a bit unsettling. And they're bitter if I'm being ho-"

"Oliver."

"Sorry. Yes. No eating people."

Martin hums.

"I'd best be going. I couldn't find Melanie earlier, you know that means trouble." He claps Gerry on the shoulder "But nobody would judge you if you killed him."

Gerry shrugs him off "Please, Oliver."

Oliver laughs as he crouches. Deadman's Finger fungus grows up around his legs, up to his chest, and encasing him entirely. It drags Oliver down into the soil. Martin shudders, wondering if that’s what happens when he dies.

"I'm  _ not  _ murdering anybody," Gerry says, he settles in next to Martin, resting his head on Martin’s shoulder and throwing his arms around him. 

Martin sighs. “If you do that I can’t work on your crown.”

“Forget about the crown. I’m...I feel  _ bad _ .”

“I know.” Martin hums, stacking his head on Gerry’s. He abandons the flowers to hold him closer.

“You’re damp.” He groans.

“I know.”

"I'm not like Mary. I'm never gonna be like Mary.”

“I kn-”

“Mary sucked."

"Language!”Martin shoulders Gerry lightly “And don’t talk about her like that. You didn't know her."

"I  _ am _ her!" Gerry insists "We're different, but...She ran over these same stones. I can feel her around sometimes. She isn’t dead, just gone. Martin, she feels evil." 

He picks up a stone, smooth and flat, turning it over in his fingers.

"Some of the old roots, before they died, they told me Mary did  _ something _ . Something bad."

"You  _ know _ I don't like thinking about the old forest." Martin pouts.

"Well, it's important! You can't just ignore that stuff, especially with the human here. Maybe she could have saved them. Maybe I can save us."

"Save us from what? Gerry, no one's going to die."

"You don't know that!" Gerry pushes Martin away, stumbling to his feet, "He could be dangerous, he could start a fire, a bad fire. Just...Just promise me You'll keep an eye on him. Really."

"I hate promises." 

Gerry narrows his eyes “Promise.” He commands with the air of someone who could take Martin’s lifeblood if he wanted, because that’s exactly what the river is.

“Fine! I pro- Pr- I. I promise!” Promises always taste terrible. His own sap mixed with Gerry's water and a bit of Oliver to make it binding. It crawls up into Martin’s roots and he sticks out his tongue.

"Thank you." Gerry says genuinely. He offers a shaky smile as he takes a few steps back. Then, with a running start, he dives into the river and disappears.

"You didn't let me give you your flower crown." Martin grumbles "Well, maybe it'll fit Melanie."

Martin leans back “Micheal, you know, you water nymphs are so- so- ugh. I doubt you’re listening anyways.” He pulls himself to his feet. 

He looks up to see the man, standing frozen, on the other bank. They stare in shocked silence. Maybe human men hunt by sound. As long as Martin doesn't speak he'll be fine, yes? 

"Ah, hello delusion. I am desperately in need of water." The man states. He drops the massive bag once again on his back, and spins to reach into it.

Martin sees his chance, and pulls up his skirt to wade across the river. The Man must be incredibly imperceptive, as Martin isn't being subtle with the splashing.

Martin steps up onto the opposite bank, and the man looks up for a moment. Martin isn't sure what happens if he gets spotted. Does he get eaten? Does he taste like tree? (Oliver would say yes) But the Man only pauses for a moment and shakes his head, going back to what he was doing before.

Alright. Cool. Martin isn't afraid. The man is smaller than him and terribly skinny. Though he should be quick with the judgements. Martin hasn't seen his teeth yet, they could be razor-sharp. Tiny, quick, and sharp, like Alice. He creeps closer slowly. The man looks back at Martin one more time, but it's hardly a glance. Martin, to his surprise, gets close enough to look over the man's shoulder, just barely seeing at the contents of his pack.

The man hums "Come around if you'd like to see it, Delusion. Shall I call you Mr.Lusion?” He laughs “I thought it'd be at least a week before I started dreaming up company but this is fine too." 

Martin looks behind himself. But he doesn't see a "Mr.Lusion" anywhere. Cautiously, he walks around The man, and earns a smile for his trouble. It's a nice smile, with only a few sharp teeth which is a good sign. Martin isn't sure what to say, so he settles on nothing at all.

"I am looking for my cup and iodine." The man says, He reaches into the pack, brushes his hair out of his face, and reaches in again. The third time his hair blocks his view, he pulls it up into a lopsided bun with the tie around his wrist.

There are many things in the bag, bits of dried fruit and other provisions, more of the coal-sticks and sheets Martin saw earlier, and an abundance of other, less familiar objects. Taking up a good quarter of the space is something tall, the size of a small fox, and wrapped in burlap. The man reaches around it for a jar and a small bottle of brown glass. He hums in satisfaction.

"Iodine, of course, will keep my water pure so I don't get sick. Because if i get sick out here, I die, which makes it very hard for me to do my job."

Martin worries his lip as the man walks back to the river. He stoops to fill the jar with water and-

"I wouldn't do that if I were you!" Martin says, without thinking. The Man startles so hard he drops the jar, diving to fumble after it. He stands again, dripping and clearly unhappy about the fact, and checks it for leaks. He turns to give Martin a questioning look. 

"Gerry is allowed to kill you if you do that. He won't. Probably. But he can."

"Phonetic delusions mean I have a problem." The man grinds the heel of his hand into his face, letting it drop in exasperation. "I'll humor you. Who's Gerry?"

"Uh, the river? The river named Gerry."

"The river named Gerry, of course." The man deadpans. "So tell me, delusion, what do I do to make sure that Gerry the river doesn't kill me."

"Don't call me delusion. You sound dumb." 

"I'm sorry, is it mirage?" The man laughs.

"It’s Martin."

The man doesn't have a response to that.

Martin turns to the river and looks down at it. "Gerry is exhausted today because you scared everybody, so don't take too much. Just make sure to ask if you can have water, okay?"

"Ah. Sure. Not worth the risk, I suppose." The man gives Martin a sideways look, before steadying his hands on his hips. He takes a deep breath and hollers "Gerry! I would like some water! Please!"

"Don't be obtuse. He's right there, he can hear you." Martin tries to sound stern, but it is quite funny.

The man rolls his eyes "Okay, Mirage-"

"My name is Martin, I just said."

"If I admitted you're real I'd have to mark myself down as insane, and I don't need that right now. Can I drink now or do I need to wait for an answer?"

"If the answer was no, you'd know."

"Would Gerry kill me?" he asks with a raised eyebrow.

Martin considers, "I'm not really sure. Nobody ever says no, really. I hear it through the roots."

"The roots." He sighs.

"That's what I said."

The man laughs, the real, non-bitter kind. His laugh is pretty, nothing like any of the nymphs, who laugh like the world should hear them. The man laughs quietly, as if the joke is just for himself. One hand comes up to his chest, and his eyes shut tight on the world. It's a low sound. Martin finds himself leaning in. When the Man opens his eyes again, he startles at seeing Martin so close.

"What's your name?" Martin whispers.

The man blinks slowly, "My name?"

"Yes, you do have one, right? Like my name's Martin and the river is Gerry."

"Ah-yeah of course I have a name. Jon. My name is Jon." 

"That's a nice name. I don't know any Jons so you'll fit right in." Martin grins "Well, I've watched you, so I'm going to nap now. Please don't start a fire. You could die. Well, we could all die but it wouldn't be that bad because Oliver would stay here but Oliver says you would taste bad so don't start a fire so you don't die."

"Hah-"

"It was nice meeting you Jon, even if you are very dumb." Martin figures here is as good a spot as any, and curls up into the dirt. If anyone comes looking for Martin as his tree, they won't find him. The plan is foolproof.

The plan is not foolproof.

"Martin, wake up."

"I swear to the forest if you guys don't let me sleep right now I’ll-"

"You promised Martin! Gerry told us you promised. Now he's off pouting."

Sasha's frowning when Martin opens his eyes. He hates when she does that, it makes him feel bad.

"I promised?" He asks, half awake.

"To watch the human man."

"Yeah. I did watch him. And then I finished watching so I took a nap."

Tim drags his hand over his face "Stop acting like me! That's something I would do and you're supposed to be the responsible one."

"Responsibility is for losers and I hate it." Martin answers. "Did Jon do something bad?"

"Jon?"

"Human man. He told me his name was Jon."

Tim shrieks.

"Martin." Sahas says.

"Yes?"

"You spoke-"

"I tend to do that."

"-to the human man."

"Mhm."

"Why?" Tim demands.

"Because If I didn't Gerry could kill him and Oliver says humans taste bad."

"Okay, but why would Gerry kill him? Gerry hasn't,  _ nobody _ has killed in this forest. Not since I got here. Besides to eat, I mean." Tim turns to Sasha. 

She shrugs. "I don't think Gerry would do it so it doesn't matter."

"Did something happen to Jon? What's the big deal?"

"Oh! He tried to climb me." Tim says.

"And?"

"And then I shook him out because he didn't ask and his arm looks real weird."

"He keeps saying 'ow'" Sasha adds helpfully "It's honestly a bit annoying?"

Martin groans, "I feel like i haven't slept in  _ aaaagessss _ ."

"It's only been, like, not that long." Sasha says. She poles Martin's side with a stick. "Come on, come on, come on! He looks broken or something."

"Fine." Martin lets Tim pull him to his feet.

Next time he'll sleep under some leaves, or ask Alice to borrow a burrow. For now, he has to deal with this problem.

Tim and Sasha stop behind a layer of bushes, shoving Martin into the small clearing between their trees.

"Ow, ow, ow, ow, shit, ow." Jon's breathes come in gasps.

"You are very annoying." Martin says as he looks down at him "And that's a rude word so you shouldn't say it. Nobody will kill you for it though. Not yet at least."

Jon groans as he rolls over to face Martin "Damn, you're back. I'm definitely dying now. Fuck."

Martin tuts "Please watch your tongue. And you aren't dying. You better not be. Stop dying!"

"If I could have  _ stopped dying _ I would have by now!" Jon snaps.

"Well if you didn't try and climb a damned tree without asking you wouldn't be in this situation at all! Look at that. You've got me speaking rudely."

"Well  _ sorry _ ." Jon laughs. It's pained this time. Martin doesn't like it nearly as much as before. His heart sinks.

"Is something wrong? Your arm doesn't look right. I've never seen that before."

"Broken." Jon wheezes "And it hurts like hell, and I'm going to die, christ."

A small 'sorry!' comes from the foliage, and then a quick 'shh!'

"I didn't know arms could do that. Can I- Can I help?"

"You can't help if you're not real, but thank you." Jon groans when he tries to sit up, only to collapse back onto the ground, hitting his shoulder. He cries out and Martin's heart does that thing again. He shouldn't be this empathetic. it's inconvenient and it hurts.

"Who said I'm not real? Oh, you poor thing. Come here."

Martin lowers himself into the grass beside Jon, hands fumbling in the air around him.

"Oh, dear. Oh, dear. Can I touch you?"

"You can try."

Martin slides his hands under Jon's neck, carrying the weight on his shoulders, and lifts gently. Jon's breath catches.

"So you  _ are _ real then. Either that or we're-" Jon winces and Martin lowers him onto his lap. "hah, Both dead."

"Well I know  _ I'm _ not dead because if I was I wouldn't exist. And you're not dead because Oliver would be upset. Oh! Oliver!" Martin turns to where Tim and Sasha are hiding "Go find Oliver! They'll know what to do."

Tim pops his head up from the foliage "You just want to be alone with the human!"

"Do not!"

"Do too!" Sasha says, but to Martin's relief, the pair turn and run.

Jon tries to look over, but Martin presses him firmly back down. He looks worryingly pale, a dopey smile appears on the man's face.

"Angel, are there more of you?" Jon reaches his good Hands up to brush a curl out of Martin's face. Martin pushes it back down.

"My name is Martin, I told you, not angel. Try not to move okay? Oliver knows how to heal birds, he might be able to heal you too."

"You're pretty."

"I'm Martin."

Jon tries to laugh, and it almost works. But the first convulsion of his shoulders makes the smooth honey sound fade to a whimper. Martin’s chest really, really hurts.

Martins buries his fingers into Jon's hair. Scratching slowly at the scalp. Jon's eyes flutter closed, his breath slowing. Martin plucks Tim's leaves out of the strands, focusing on prying the knots gently apart so he doesn’t have to focus on his anxiety. It's a familiar motion, a single, small way Martin is sure he can help. 

The wrinkles in Jon's face smooth as he relaxes, pressing further into Martin. A hand wanders down from Jon's hair to stroke the soft turns of his jaw. Martin watches how Jon's lip folds as he thumbs the pliable spot underneath it, stubble scratching at him. Jon's breath runs hot over Martin's thumb and he jerks his hand away.

Jon, Martin realizes, is fast asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Mitcheviousness for pointing it out, Micheal is actually you're beloved McFuckFingers! Counter-intuitive, so I apologize, but he'a my favorite of the three.
> 
> This fic is incomplete and I wrote it in two days! I see no reason to stop, but you know how things are. Comments and kudos are Highly appreciated and very motivating!
> 
> Scream at my to write on Tumblr at [@drumkonwords](https://drumkonwords.tumblr.com/) where I may or may not vague about this fic ;)
> 
> Check out This nymph Gerry HC by my good friend!
> 
> Alternate chapter titles:  
> -In which Tim says fuck  
> -In which martin can nap....once  
> -in which I can't name you "Jane Crow" because that sounds pretty racist  
> -In which there is a general lack of murder women...for now  
> -In which Oliver makes people uncomfortable  
> -In which Gerry doesn't enjoy murder  
> -In which I physically cannot write timsasha without suggesting they fucked in the forest i swear i didn't mean to do that  
> -In which Martin starts a kickstarter to step on Anabelle: Benefits of putting her down is that he gets picked on way less  
> -In which the cute-boy-he-thought-he-imagined's touch is enough to send Jon into shock


	2. In which a Nymph or Two are Drained

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin is incredibly worried, Gerry is in need of some assistance, and some familiar faces say hello.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, WOW, I'd like to thank everyone for the reception this fic got I am absolutely over the moon. I'll talk more about the meta stuff in the end-note, for now, TW:  
> -non-lethal/perilous arguments  
> -Implied kidnapping???  
> -shushing  
> -probably cursing just assume all my fics have cursing
> 
> The fics new declared theme song is Nina Cried Powers my Hozier  
> interpret as you will

Martin checks Jon is still breathing every two seconds, or five minutes, or something. All that matters is that Jon’s breath is getting shallow (he doesn’t stop panicking to think sleep may be the cause) and that Oliver is being agonizingly slow. Martin turns his chin to the sky, he can’t look at Jon anymore. He just can’t. The serenity on Jon’s face makes Martin want to hide. He shouldn’t look. It feels too much like wanting, like Jon’s made this bubble around himself and crossing into it is that world’s most self-indulgent crime.

Worse still is Jon’s arm, bent sharply below the elbow. The swollen sight of it makes Martin blanch. He touches under Jon's lips again, allowing himself a peek. Still breathing. Still alive.

But Jon  _ said _ he was dying. Martin hopes the man is as stupid as he comes off to be. He tugs Jon’s hair tie onto his wrist and runs his fingers through from root to ends. Jon’s hair is surprisingly soft. It’s something he can focus on. Something pleasant to keep him grounded.

“This is him, then?” Oliver’s voice is level as he approaches Martin from behind, crouching beside him “A broken arm. Hmm.”

“Is he going to die?” Martin asks. He forces himself to stay still, not wanting to jostle Jon, but he half-wishes Oliver would hug him like when he was a child, cradling him close and saying it’s okay to cry. But Oliver doesn’t offer and Martin doesn’t let the tears come; He’s stronger than that. Death is normal, he reminds himself, so why does this bother him so much?

Oliver stays silent, creeping around to Jon’s arm. “I need to elevate it. Don’t move too much.” He waves his hand over the soil, closes his fist, and makes a pulling motion. The ground swells with puffballs, king oysters, and a few button mushrooms to fill in the gaps, lifting Jon’s arm a few inches. He groans in his sleep. Martin almost screams at Oliver, but the look of calm focus on his face makes him hold his tongue.

"I've sent Tim and Sasha to get the things I'll need to fix this. You were right to send for me.”

Martin nods, still combing through Jon’s hair. This is good. He did good.

“You...Feel free to leave."

"Are you insane?” Bristling, Martin tugs on Jon’s hair, he groans and Martin softens. “I'm staying. Don't ask again."

“Humans are...fragile. They die-” He takes a breath "I’m getting ahead of myself. This right here is not going to be pretty. If I want him to heal properly I need to move the bone back into place."

It isn’t an invasion if he’s chaperoned, Martin reasons. He looks down at Jon, it’s not a face that deserves pain. He wonders idly if Jon’s face is as soft as his hair. "Will that hurt him?"

"It can't be helped. If you're staying I'll need you to hold him down so I can work."

"And this will help-"

"Martin, please.” Oliver says “I know what I'm doing,  _ Stop  _ questioning me."

"Yes, Oliver." He squeaks.

Oliver leans back to wait, eyes closed but mouth moving. Present, but just barely, as he manages the forest’s concerns. Martin has half the mind reach for his roots, following the conversation, but idle gossip seems like the least satisfying thing right now. It can’t be anything more interesting than the usual water distribution talks, even if the stakes seem higher.

A dry twig snaps as Tim and Sasha enter the clearing. They carry handwoven fabric scraps, some of which have likely been taken from Martin’s tree, and sticks of all shapes and sizes. Oliver watches them approach and points to the ground nearby, where the supplies are promptly dropped. 

Gerry enters last, walking boozily. He looks pallid, the space under his eyes sunken and dark, but he grips the small bag in his hands tightly. “Ice.” He says.

“Thank you. Now go get some rest. I’m sure making this was hard on you.”

Gerry glares "I have enough of that to last the next few days. Nothing less than you asked. Now. I'm going to- I'm going back to my river." Gerry gives Jon a once-over. He sneers and turns away, stumbling over the few steps it takes him.

“Woah boy!” Tim surges forward, but stops at the last second "Need help?" he asks.

"I'm fine." Gerry’s swaying.

"Let me walk with you,” Tim says, already moving closer “It's no trouble I promise."

Gerry tenses, but doesn't have the energy to maintain it, he nods. Tim places his hand on the small of Gerry's back, and Gerry leans into the touch. “Tell me… I dunno, Just talk?”

“I’ll talk if you let me test my raft.” Tim teases.

Gerry laughs. “Not today.”

“Tomorrow then? Deal! And now I get to talk your ear off so I really got the better end of this. The human is  _ so weird _ , but I was really brave about it, see. I haven’t even begun to explain, the thing on his face-”

When Martin looks back, Oliver has arranged the sticks and fabric into neat rows, what is clearly a discard pile takes up half the material.

"Will you need me?" Sasha asks.

Oliver waves her over “Take the scraps, I don’t care what you do with them.” Sasha nods and scoops them up, she heads to Martin’s tree. "Don’t think, Martin, just push on three. One, two-"

A sickening crack and Jon is screaming. Martin dutifully presses on his shoulders. "Shh. Shh, it's okay, you're okay. We're fixing you. You'll get better."

Jon meets Martin's eyes. "M-hah-Martin I-"

"Shh, you can talk when we get you settled, alright?"

Jon tenses with the pain of it, but nods.

"I'll get you patched up soon. Don't worry, I know what I'm doing."

"That's Oliver. You can trust him. It's okay." It's clear Jon isn’t listening. He takes hard, timed breaths. In through his nose and out through his mouth. One-two in. Three-four out. Martin runs his thumb over Jon’s jaw with it. One-two up. Three-four down. He finds his breath syncing too, and his heart beats slower. One-two. Three-four. They’re okay.

Oliver compares the length of two of the straighter sticks. He nods to himself and places them on either side of Jon's arm, the longer one reaching up past the elbow by about an inch, the shorter runs the inside length of Jon's forearm.

"Hold here," Oliver instructs, putting Martin's hand over the sticks. Jon twitches but breathes himself through it. Oliver reaches for a strip of fabric, twisting both ends to leave a flat cradle in the middle, He sits Jon’s elbow into it, tying firmly on the inside of the joint. Several other strips are looped once around either stick and tied off. Then Oliver pulls the biggest piece under Jon’s neck and ties that over the entire splint, securing it to the stick that comes off Jon’s elbow.

"Now I'm just securing the wrist, the worst part is done."

Martin forces a smile. "You're doing so well! Did you hear? Jon, it's almost over. you're going to be okay." 

Jon grunts.

Oliver makes quick work of hooking shorter, curved sticks at the base of Jon's palm. Tying them in place. 

"That's it. Jon’s your name? Can you hear me?"

Jon opens his eyes, they blow wide when he looks at Oliver, but he's too pained to have much room for fear.

"Yeah." he breathes.

"Good. I'm putting ice on your arm now to help with the swelling. You need to  _ keep _ it on ice, and you can't use this arm except to maybe hold light objects, but give that a few days, and don't make it a habit."

"Mmm. My job. I need to do my job."

"You won't be doing much of anything with one arm. You got lucky, nothing in this forest is actively trying to eat or bite you, but you'll still need that arm to survive if you expect to keep up this career of yours."

"Can I sit up?"

Oliver nods, and Jon rolls over to his good side. Martin helps him through the worst of it and places his shoulder in the middle of Jon’s back for support. Jon grumbles a thanks. 

"Your name is Oliver. The one who wants me to li-the one who doesn't want me dead."

"Nice to meet you. I'd shake your hand but-"

"No need, I just have some questions. How many of you live here? Where do you live? Is-what religion do you follow? I haven't seen this before I don't-"

"There aren't clean answers to any of those questions." Oliver says, "But we can talk about that once you get settled. Where's your tent? I can set it up. Sasha, check his bag."

"Yessir."

"I don't have a tent."

" _ You don't have a tent? _ "

"I forgot?” he offers "I figured I'd just make something once I got here. Would it help to say I've done it before?"

"And how did that work out for you?"

Jon frowns.

"What's a tent?" Martin asks.

"A temporary house." Oliver answers.

"What is a house?"

"You don't know what a house is. Fascinating." Jon moves to stand, realizes he doesn’t quite know how to get up from here, groans, and leans back onto Martin again.

Oliver sighs "We need to get priorities here. I can explain this all later but  _ you _ need to not freeze once the sun goes down. I didn’t put in all that work for you to go and die anyways.”

"Jon knows what he's doing," Martin says "He's been here ages."

"Martin, he's been here for one afternoon."

"Ah-"

"So a polychronic way of life?"

"Oh my lo- _ Forest _ , man, get it together!" Exasperated, Oliver turns to Sasha. "Find anything useful? Any poles, a tarp?"

"Uh, no." She says wringing her hands together "You...hm… Come see for yourself."

"Is it  _ important _ Sasha?"

"I really think so!" She says, voice cracking.

Oliver groans. He drops the bag of ice onto Jon’s arm and pushes himself to his feet. Martin can only watch as Oliver peaks into Jon's bag, he reaches in, then snaps his hand back like he's been burned.

"Ohh" He laughs dangerously. "Jon, you're hurt, I'm letting you off easy  _ this time _ , but, child, I have questions for you."

Jon only nods.

"What did you do?" Martin asks.

"I'm honestly not sure, but I'm used to this. My job, I get-"

"Get up!” Oliver pulls Jon up by his good arm, he hisses.

Martin bites his tongue on his worry "Oliver don't be cruel. You said not to judge him."

" _ Cruel _ ." he sneers.

"It's alright, Martin. I-hmm" Jon pulls his arm out of Oliver's grip, "I'll get this cleared up in no time, and then you can tell me more."

"Oh, shut up. We're finding you a place to stay and we talk when  _ I say _ we talk." 

"I came here for answers, I still have a job to do."

"Fuck your job, Jon, How many of us are you here to uproot?"

"I don't even know how many of you there are! I'm here to make a goddamned map I don't even know what up-"

"Please!" Martin cries, "Please stop arguing. Jon can stay in my tree, I can answer his questions, and we can all have time to cool off, okay?"

Sasha fidgets "Martin, I don't know."

He gives her a glare, then turns it to Oliver "Okay?"

Oliver frowns, “Martin, you don’t understand.”

“I think I understand just f-.” Martin sighs at the telltale clapping of leaves and feet. He turns.

“Martin!” Melanie squeals “Come loof af mah teef!” She runs to give Martin a hug, pressing her face into his side. Martin shoots Oliver one last look, a truce, and puts on an expression of enthusiasm, ruffling Melanie’s hair.

“Family structure is...yet unknown.” Jon mumbles. His fingers twitch.

“What about your teeth?” Martin asks “Oh no. Don’t tell me. They’ve all fallen out. You’ve only got gums now like vleh bleh bleh! Bleh vleh now Martin has to eat all my fruit because I have no teeth bleh bleh!”

Melanie giggles, swatting at him. “No, silly! My big-fox teeth are coming in. Do you think Alice will be proud?”

“Very proud! And I’m very proud of you too but I’m busy right now. Show me your teeth later, okay? We can talk all about them.”

Melanie only then notices her surroundings. She nods at Oliver, sticks her tongue out at Sasha, and then her eyes go wide.

“Who’s the new guy? Where’s his tree? Does he have a tree or something else? Is he like Gerry? Hey! How many teeth do you have?” Melanie rushes for Jon, but Oliver lunges and scoops her up, still kicking.

“Ah. He’s, um. Still learning. You can’t talk to him right now and you have to keep it very secret until we say you can tell.” Melanie squirms in Oliver’s grip, but he holds firm. “Okay?”

“Okay!” She hisses. As soon as Oliver let’s go, Melanie runs back to Martin’s side. 

Oliver sighs. He sticks his hand out and waits for the growth that erupts from the ground nearby to place a small object in his hand before he sends the fungus back underground.

Jon makes a sound a bit like "I- hmm- he- i- Wha- he-  _ heeee _ hoooo, ap- na- pah gay-" 

“Ad- pah- wah-” Melanie mimics, crossing her eyes.

Jon forces his jaw shut with a click.

"This is a knife." Oliver says, pressing the handle into Martin's hand even as Melanie sidles away from him. There aren't many metal things in the forest, Sasha found a metal box, once, half buried, though Martin didn't get a chance to look at it himself. This knife has a blade of metal, tarnished but clearly sharp. The wooden handle, engraved with the letter J, feels sturdy where Oliver pushes it into his palm, "If he does anything- _ anything _ , that looks suspicious, use it."

“I don’t suppose I get a say in this?” Jon asks.

“No."

"He's just a dumb human, I won't need it." Martin presses the knife away, but Oliver's gaze only hardens. 

"Take it."

Martin does, kicking himself internally.

"Come on, Jon." he tries to hold his chin up. Oliver meets his gaze for a few long seconds, before stepping to the side. 

He beelines for Jon's pack, tugging it from Sasha. She doesn’t let go.

“Martin, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why?” he growls.

“I can’t-” Sasha’s eyes slide to Melanie. Her brow furrows, and slowly, her hands fall slack.

"Are you coming or not?" Martin says, tossing the pack over his shoulder.

"Hoh. I- Yes. Heavy. Strong. I- just-” Jon looks to Melanie, she’s visibly primed and ready for the mocking. He breathes “Please don't stab me? I'd rather not go through that again."

Martin palms his forehead, too tired to ask. “Mel, Go play with Alice.” He claps her once on the shoulder. Melanie ignores him.

Martin leads Jon to the opening of his tree. It isn't concealed, but it isn't obvious either. He holds the woven door aside and gives Melanie the side-eye as she climbs in. Oliver looks unhappy about the fact. Not Martin's problem.

Martin gestures Jon inside.

Even Jon has to duck a little to fit through the opening, leaning his good arm on what might be called a doorframe.

"Martin." Sasha says "Just...Be careful with the bag."

Martin looks back at her. The day has taken its toll, frown lines standing sentry at either end of her mouth. Her hands clenching and unclenching. 

“I won’t make you promise. But please.”

Martin nods and steps into his tree.

Jon stands like a statue in the corner, so Martin figures he's okay to ignore him for now. He places Jon's pack down against the far wall. He stares at it, tempted. Oliver didn’t like Jon in the first place, but Sasha isn’t the kind to leave things unsaid. Martin reaches for the cover but jerks his hand away. Whatever's inside is not yet his problem. He’d rather rest. 

Melanie has a similar curiosity on her face, Martin shakes his head at her. She pouts.

Martin's tree isn't small, the outside takes the arm-span of all six nymphs to wrap around it entirely, they've tested. On the inside, though, it's about double the size. It's homely. Carved shelves piled with knick-knacks line the walls; large pots from the clay Gerry gave Martin a few summer solstices ago hold fermenting wine, water, and tea; and blue sheets, lazily made throws act as both blankets and rugs, litter the floor, reminiscent of the week-long spree after Oliver taught them how to dye. 

Indigo grows in abundance across the river, but other plants are harder to come by. A basket of bloodroot-dyed fiber sits on Martin's excuse for a table, low enough to eat on when you sit cross-legged, but just as often used to sleep. Martin isn’t sure what to weave with it, so it gathers dust and brings a little color-variety to the space. Melanie rolls a length of the yarn between her fingers as she lounges on the platform.

Martin tuts. "I have tea somewhere here, ah, hmm."

The first pot he checks is full of plain water, Martin covers it and turns to the next. It takes a few tries, but he finds the mint tea, a few days old and long gone cold, but it isn't bad. He plucks two cups off of his shelf and ladels them full. Melanie pretends not to like tea, taking after Alice’s general repulsion for anything that might calm her down, but the well-steeped stuff takes fire, and that makes it a rare treat. She tracks Martin’s movements hungrily.

He turns to Jon (the man averts his eyes in an attempt to look like he wasn't looking) and places the cup awkwardly beside him.

Jon grabs his wrist, hand twisting to hold it up. “Let me just-” 

He slips his fingers under the hair tie on Martin’s wrist, rolling it off of Martin’s hand with little strokes that leave shivers under every touch. Jon watches with the same sharp gaze he gave Martin’s leaf those few hours ago, it’s how he always looks at Martin, seeing more than he’s being shown. His finger’s slip between Martin’s as he pulls the hair tie off. The nymph swallows dryly.

"There you go." Martin says breathily "You do drink tea?"

"I love tea, thank you. And this is filtered?" 

"Boiled a couple days ago."

Jon takes a sip. His face sours slightly. "Herbal?"

"Mint." Martin turns to Melanie and bounces his eyebrows. She's had mint tea before, tried it on a dare and her eyes lit up. Melanie turns away from him.

"Still better than coffee." Jon says, "Do you have sugar?"

"Of course I have sugar. It's in my tree. Is that one of your questions?"

Jon tilts his head, "Sugar to put in my tea? To sweeten it?"

"You want a sweetener!" Martin nearly knocks his cup over as he scrambles to grab the small jar "I have honey, not much though. ‘Need to go ask for more."

Jon holds the jar up to his eyes and neatly pours half in his cup. There's hardly any left.

"You can finish that if you'd like. I won't need it." Jon nods his head towards Melanie, who’s now thoroughly distracted by the ladybug crawling up her arm.

It takes Martin a moment, then he grins. He moves slowly to take the honey from Jon, it’s like Melanie can smell him doing anything suspicious, he hasn’t managed to spook her even once, but if he’s extra careful he might get away with it. He stirs the honey in and sets it next to Melanie. Casual-like.

“Water.” He says. Martin turns to see Jon put a hand to his mouth. He winks in response. “So you had questions?”

“Yes, um, but- Well I’m sorry to be a bother intruding on your space like this. I don’t have much and, well I mean I’m clearly not in my best shape, but is there anything I can  _ do _ ? I know- I know  _ things _ .” Jon's shoulders go tense as he tries to hide behind his cup of tea. Martin's heart does that thing again. "If you're curious."

Martin shrugs, almost mourning the lack of a teacup of his own to bury his face into, “There are some things I don’t quite get? Like-” He thinks back to Tim’s conversation with Gerry. “What are those things on your face?”

Jon’s hand shoots up to his cheek with a furrowed eyebrow, “There’s stubble...Do you mean the scars?”   
  
“I know what  _ scars _ are. But the glass thing. In front of your eyes.”

Jon’s mouth forms an O, “Glasses!" He says, "Or spectacles. I need them to see.”

Martin almost asks why he can’t just see harder, but he has a feeling it would come off as rude. He glances at Melanie, she hasn’t reached for her glass yet as she tries to stop the ladybug from crawling up past her hairline. He snorts, “How many teeth do you have?”

Jon makes a face. He makes a series of faces as he counts with his tongue “Eight times four… twenty-three, I think. Lost one.”

Melanie holds a loose fist up in victory, then brings it down to peer into the gap by her thumb. Her eyes finally falling on the two “Is it your fox-tooth like me? When is it coming back?”

“A Molar, actually. And no, it’s gone. Took a bad fall- A...less bad fall..” He takes a sip.

“Where’s your tree?” Melanie asks, sitting up.

“I don’t ha-”   
  


“So what are your questions, Jon?” Martin says.

Jon takes a pause, says a silent “ah”, and nods. “I just need to take some notes. Let me....Can I go in my bag? I'd like to get some things."

"I don't care what you do as long as it doesn't involve my sleep or a fire. It's your stuff."

Jon tends to talk to himself, Martin notices, while he works with his hands. Or hand. "Left her uncovered… pencils …. Compass…” Melanie takes a sip of her tea. She frowns for a second, then smiles, turning away from Martin. “Accounted for… hello, yes…. later." Jon grasps his supplies in his good hand and moves to sit back down. 

“Now, let’s see.” Jon leans over his paper, bats his hair away, and groans. “I can’t put it up without my hands, and it’ll smudge everything, let me-”

"Oh, I gotcha!" Melanie stands, letting the ladybug crawl off her hand, and silently moves behind Jon. His head tracks her movement until she’s out of his view and then snaps up with the force of her hand’s in his hair.

“Erk.” Jon says, he rubs the front of this throat.

“Don’t be a baby. It’s just a braid.” Apparently Martin did a good job detangling, as Melanie’s fingers glide through Jon’s hair with ease. She doesn’t fumble with the strands. Sasha would be proud to see. 

“Well, thank you.” Jon says. His voice is kinder than it’s been when he talks to Melanie. “How was your, ah, beetle?”

“Ladybug.” She corrects. “His name is Joshua and he’s doing well.”

Jon nods, or tries to nod, before Melanie gives a sharp tug on his hair, and he stills. 

“It’s a shame we don’t have leaves to braid in, isn’t it Martin? Hmm?" She bounces her eyebrows.

Martin chokes on his tongue.“You’re a fiend.”

“So...What do you like to do with your time?” Jon asks.

It takes Melanie a moment to realize Jon’s talking to her, “Oh! I like to play with Alice, and Gerry lets me draw in the dirt on the river sometimes, and Sasha teaches me how to braid, like this, and I climb trees with Tim and weave with Martin.”

Jon’s eyebrows shoot up, “Wow, really? That's a lot! What’s your favorite thing?”

“Drawing,” She answers “I’m the only one who really draws. Gerry taught me how but he’s super busy all the time, you know, being the river. Sometimes I give the other’s tattoos, but it’s been a while.”   
  


“Oh!” Jon says, fingers twitching, “Do the tattoos mean anything?”

Melanie finishes the top of Jon’s head and makes quick work of the rest, humming thoughtfully, “Not really. Ribbon?”   
  


Jon dutifully passes his hair tie over his shoulder. Melanie stretches it between her fingers, frowning. She pulls it into a line, nods to herself, and knots it at the end of Jon’s braid, evening the loops carefully. 

“I’m done! And bored. Alice found a new blueberry bush. I said I'd wait, but she eats faster than me so I gotta get to it first.” She gives Martin a one-sided grin, “And thanks for the tea. Which I still don’t like by the way...but it isn’t terrible.” and she hides her face as she runs out the door.

The men look out after her, then in one tight moment make eye contact. Jon is the first to crack, his top lip curling up, his shoulders shaking, and then laughter. Martin can help but giggle along with him.

“What a charming young lady.” Jon says, covering his mouth as he comes down from the glee, “Is she your daughter?”

Martin stops laughing. He blinks.“Oh. Oh no. Oh  _ forest _ no. I don’t know how humans have kids but I didn’t make her. I’m not that old anyway.”

Jon shrugs “People from different cultures have children at different ages. How old are you?”

“No clue, but not old enough to be a dad. Oliver raised us when he was around 400 years? The only one with a real mum that I know of is Gerry. And he’s only here because Mary died.” Martin would notice Jon’s confusion if his eyes weren’t shut in a yawn. “Now that I have the chance, I’m taking a nap. Don’t start a fire or something, ya?”

“You’re sleeping. Just like that?”

"Mhm. The bedrolls are behind you on the shelf." Martin says, laying down on his own. "Take Sasha's, she's about your size so it works out."

"My arm?"

"I'll go get the ice from Gerry whenever you need it. He'll keep it reserved. You really should thank him, making ice takes a lot of energy." 

"I...I'll make sure to do that."

Martin hums and pulls his blanket up to his chin letting his eyes fall blissfully closed. Then a  _ tap tap tapping _ makes him groan. Too big to be Anabelle. Martin peaks out one eye to see Jon patting the floor anxiously, worrying his lip and making an admirable, but futile attempt to flip through his notes faster than he can read.

Jon catches him looking, "Martin?"

"Hmm?"

"What are you?"

"I'm Martin." he says, "And I'm going to sleep."

"No, I know  _ who _ you are, but not  _ what _ you are. Like how does Gerry just make ice? How did Oliver- the thing? With the knife? Can you do that?”

Martin grumbles. "I'm a nymph. And no."

"What does that mean? Martin? Martin!"

"Jon," Martin says, sitting up quickly. "I haven't gotten any good sleep since you arrived. All I've done is run around so that I can make sure  _ you _ don't do any harm. And that’s without worrying that you won’t get yourself killed somehow. You're so- so annoying! I’m hardly surprised whatever “ _ Job _ ” you need to do has gotten you in so much trouble. Just Shut up and get some rest!"

The change in Jon’s demeanor is instant. From throwing himself open as far as he can with one good arm, leaning forward, to curled up into himself. He studies the floor.

Regret curls up in Martin's belly."I didn't mean-"

"You told me you'd answer my questions." Jon says, he presses the ice closer to the splint "You gave me your word."

"I didn't promise anything."

"Does that matter? Or are you just going to keep lying to me the whole time I'm here."

"Look, I'm sorry."

"Oh, I didn't know nymphs could  _ be _ sorry. I’ve been thrown around like a rag doll since I got here. And Oliv-"

"Jon," Martin warns. "You're my guest, it was wrong for me to mislead you, but that gives you no excuse to be rude, especially to someone who isn’t here. That applies to me as well, so I'm apologizing. I'm  _ sorry _ . I won't snap at you again."

The fire of Jon’s tirade goes out with a whimper, "And I won't, ah, annoy you. I guess."

Martin shrugs "I invited you here. It really is my problem. Come on, I'll answer your questions but after that, we're both getting rest. You look terrible."

"Thanks." Jon chuckles, "I'm told it's my signature look.”

Martin realizes Jon didn't even attempt to take a bedroll, it takes two hands to carry. As Jon settles himself on the table Melanie has vacated, Martin scrambles to his feet. He pulls the blanket from the soft mat and wraps it around Jon's shoulders.

"Oh!" Jon says, He places his hand over Martin's and offers that pretty smile "Thank you."

Martin hopes the quickening pace of his breath isn’t obvious as he waits to pull away without offending Jon, smiling politely. Softly. He tells himself he isn’t savoring the warmth of Jon’s hand. Nymphs aren’t warm like humans are, not without a few hours in the sun. Jon is utterly unique.

Jon lets go.

"So first question, then?" Martin nods the go-ahead, retreating desperately to his bedroll, "What is a nymph?"

"Nymphs come from the trees and rivers and such. Some of us come from other things though. Like Manuela is the shade."

"Manuela...shade." Jon repeats as he writes "And Oliver and ah, the girl? Not Melanie, the older one."

"Sasha. They're nymphs too."

"Mhm. That...the thing Oliver did. With the knife and the ground? I don't-” Jon flips through his notes, glances longingly to his pack. “I don't understand."

Martin shrugsm "He's the network. The fungus. He just moves himself."

"Can you move like that with your tree?"

"I can. I don't like to, though. Oliver doesn't have to worry about breaking things when he moves the mushrooms around. I do. Oh! It's like your broken arm!" Martin beams, feeling smart.

"Yes, Yes. And the other two trees around here. Are they Nymphs too?"

"Tim's the Willow, Sasha the crab apple, I'm a-"

"Sycamore. Your leaves are very nice, by the way. Larger than I've ever seen."

Martin feels himself blush. "Oh...thanks."

"You know,” Jon tilts his head, “I took your leaf without asking. That's considered rude here, yes? I should-"

"Don't mention it." Martin squeaks, "Really. Don't mention it. Your, um, drawing was nice."

"Thanks, you saw? Can you see with your tree?" Jon scans the room, leaning to get a better peek behind himself.

"Oh, no." Martin says, "Trees don't have eyes, exactly. I saw because I was just...Well, I was sitting in the branches when you came by. So."

Jon pauses, looking pointedly at his notes and not at Martin, "Then, um, just one more thing for now and I'll let you sleep. Does Your forest have a name?"

"Why would the forest need a name? We just call it " The Forest", ya?" Martin speaks slowly. It must be another one of those things humans have a hard time wrapping their heads around.

Jon puts his stick down, pushing his glasses back up to his eyes. "Martin," He says "You are aware that there are other forests, right?"

Martin blinks.

And stares.

He wishes he’d made himself tea.

"That can't be right. You're probably just confused. I'm going to bed now."

Jon makes a face halfway between a grin and a wince. "Ha- Alright then!"

Martin goes to lie down. He pretends not to feel Jon watching him, but the man isn't trying to be subtle, there's no scratching of his marking-stick, he hasn't even put his stuff away. Martin makes himself relax and lets his breathing slow. Even then, Jon doesn't move.

Martin feels himself start to sweat. He wants to see what's happening. Oliver said, well, if Jon's being suspicious-

" _ There's _ the REM." Jon says, "That was fast."

He stands, and Martin hears the sound of opening pots, cups being picked up and placed back on the shelf. Jon shuffles close, and Martin feels the radiating heat of Jon's hand near his cheek. Jon hums to himself, dissatisfied, and moves away. Then the sound of Jon opening his bag. The man grunts, and with a swish of Martin's door, silence.

"Fuck." Martin says. He sits up. "I can't catch a-" He reaches for the knife, just in case, "break with this man." Jon's pack looks deflated, something large taken out of it. Martin sighs, his vision falters as he stands. Forest, he needs sleep, but he heads out after Jon.

Jon was clumsy at their first sight, and the broken arm isn't helping. As Martin reaches for the roots, he sees the forest light a path as Jon barrels full speed over the foliage. He favors his bad side, seeing as all the trees he runs into are on his left. None of the trees are angry about it. The next one he bumps into flares with irritation, and just as quickly quiets. Jon says  _ sorry.  _ The trees may not be mad, no, but they are confused. 

_ WHO DOES HE HAVE _

The forest wants to know.

Martin has no idea how to answer.

He turns toward the river and starts off. Martin always trusts the forest, of course. If he didn't, well, not good for a Nymph he assumes. There's nothing in the setting sun that makes him feel afraid, he could, quite literally, navigate this place with his eyes closed. 

But Jon can't.

Martin tries not to think too hard about it. How sharp the leaves can be. The thorns. The animals capable of swarming someone if they'd like to. Picking the flesh from bone. He doesn't think about it and picks up pace. Martin's so focused on the path ahead of him, he doesn't realize what's coming from the side until it's too late.

" _ Alice! _ " Martin shrieks. The fox leaps onto his shoulder and off behind him in a streak of red emboldened by the golden light. Another follows, dashing between Martin's legs and nearly making him trip. "Alice no!" But the rest of the skull come anyway, touching Martin in a quick hello, before falling into wrestling pairs at his feet.

"Alice I can't mo-ah!"

"Hyaaaah!" Melanie burst out of the foliage, diving for one of the foxes. It darts away, but not before Melanie grabs it, swiping its face with a blueberry mash. "Thirteen- hi Martin- You're killing me, Alice! This is too easy!"

The foxes pile atop each other in one, nipping pile. It swells slightly, and when they scatter to play elsewhere (read: to attack Martin again), what looks like a woman lays in against the soil. she laughs and goes cross-eyed to look at the blue mark on her nose.

"You're doing real well for a kit! But you haven't got all of us." Then, spotting him, Alice leaps to her feet and captures Martin in a hug. Her form is slight, but Martin knows better than to struggle against her nails and teeth. She jumps, and Martin picks her up on instinct. He really spoils her.

"How many do I gots to go?" Melanie asks innocently.

"Ah, ah! That's for me to know and you to discover."

"You suck." Melanie sticks her tongue out.

"Don't speak to your elder like that, child! I'll  _ get _ you!"

"You can try, old lady." A fox makes a leaping swipe for Melanie's nose, sending her into a fit of giggles.

Alice reclines in Martin's arms, "What are you up to at this hour? I thought Sasha would be telling ghost stories by now."

"They aren't  _ ghost stories _ she really found some scary-" Martin takes a deep breath "Look. I can't have this argument right now. I need to catch up to someone."

Alice's ears pull back at the phrase "catch up". " Who are you chasing?"

"It's none of your business." Martin lowers his arms and Alice drops onto her feet. "Isn't Melanie  _ hunting _ you right now?"

Alice perks up again, then gives Martin a withering glare. "Don’t tease like that. I'm letting you go this time, but I can  _ smell _ something new in the air, hunter." She nods to the knife in Martin's hands. “It’s on Melanie too. You know what I’ll do to anyone who hurts Melanie.” She bares her teeth, Martin doesn’t need the reminder.

The Forest flares, ground swelling with signals.

Martin flinches.

Alice doesn't feel it. Alice doesn't have roots and she isn't touching any tree strong enough to feel the signal. But Melanie does. Over Alice's shoulder, Martin shakes his head at her, pitying the wide-eyed expression on her face as the entire forest erupts in alarm.

_ WHO _

Martin takes off running. It takes Melanie tackling her to stop Alice from following on instinct. Even at half her age, Melanie is strong, and all she needs is to hold until Alice gets her mind back.

Martin doesn't wait for that to happen, forgetting his exhaustion as adrenaline fills him. The forest looms. It growls with the sound of chitters and squawks and squeaks and screams.

_ WHO _

_ WHO _

_ WHO _

_ WHY _

The sky grows dark, Manuela's curiosity grows thick but Martin pushes her away. He'll her about it later.

_ Do you promise _

Yes! Yes, whatever.

Forward is his only thought. It's dark. Shapes in the darkness. Martin should be able to  _ see _ here. To  _ know _ here. But he's blind in his panic. His feet stumble over a root and he doesn't bat an eye as he ducks into a roll, hops up, and keeps running. Tim's screaming voice comes into earshot.

"What? Oh my Forest. Gerry! Gerry?"

With one last burst of energy, Martin brakes the tree line.

It’s almost peaceful.

The moonlight falls softly, uncaringly over the tableau. It paints Gerry a loving, jaundiced color as he stoops on the opposite bank. Shoulders forward, head bowed, hand extended. Poised like a fearsome dancer performing his last. River shimmers as the moon lets its photons dance over it. A waltz. The ballroom slopes up toward Martin in a sheet of blue ice, encasing the centerpiece.

A man lays on his back, head desperately turned toward Martin. All four of his limbs are encased in cold that glitters like a ballgown. The ice crawls up his neck and ends in sharp points that force Jon to raise his chin high. Like the prized debutant. Rich and mysterious. He looks like he knows it.

A ballet-soldier, Tim stands triumphant over Jon’s form, brandishing something fox-sized over his head. He looks up to it against the moonlight, eyes reflecting.

The darkness creeps over the river banks, covering the ballroom river as the moon rendezvous with a cloud, disappearing. A chill crawls through Martin-

" _ Martin _ !" Gerry screams. His voice booms across the river, skipping over it like stones and taking flight to chase away the birds in nearby trees. He looks so frail, like the sound nearly splits him in two "Why?"

_ WHY DOES HE HAVE A CHILD _

_ WHO IS SHE _

_ WHO IS HE _

_ WHO _

_ WHO _

_ WHO _

_ WHY _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate titles:  
> -in which hey, jon whAT THE FUCK  
> -in which [enter wife with knife (Teeth) and other wife who is not wife because she's a child]  
> -in which, finally some good fucking soft shit  
> -in which the author realized she made Mel a tattoo artist at, like, five years old but that's okay  
> -in which you now, unfortunately, realize I adore cliffhangers  
> -In which I rearranged this whole damn chapter to give you Jon with a child  
> -in which, to the tune of shots, FOX FOX FOXFOXFOX FOX FOX FOXFOXFOX 
> 
> A thank you:  
> okay okay okay now I get to freak out about how absolutely wonderful this all is. If you've left a kudos, THANK YOU! I woke up to 38 kudos and I hardly breathed all morning, both my parents are invested in this project (Though they aren't reading it, thank the stars) and you've just made this budding reader so happy! If you left a comment here's a ticket to one free hug redeemable repeatedly forever.  
> Special thanks to Leo from the discord for helping me streaming this chapter. Love you, Leo <3
> 
> Stuff that matters to you:  
> -I want to update every Tuesday and I'm trying really hard to get ahead on chapters before school starts, depending on my workload updates may slow down to every other week but I'm hoping it won't.  
> -My chapter lengths seem to be staying generally consistent, because I know I want that as a reader, and this one is on the shorter side, which is fine, but my minimum goal is 6k words and I want to average 7k per chapter.  
> -Yes, I know where the plot is going, you've already been foreshadowed ;) but I'll answer lore questions you might have best I can!  
> -TWs will always be at the top, and I'm keeping alternate titles and endnote jokes because they're fun, I'll try to keep up with songs with chapters  
> -Tag changes have happened you might want to look at, some are just decluttering but keep up with those as time goes on.  
> -Critique is very welcome, you don't have to be nice but flattery is also welcome :P  
> -You're lovely
> 
> Note on accuracy:  
> I've never broken a bone, but I asked around and googled and it should be realistic that Jon can function after the bone is set without too much pain. I feel more confident about the treatment he got, but ofc this isn't instructions for how to set a bone. Either way, it may not be entirely accurate, but I tried.  
> I also accidentally tagged this as Oliver/Martin/Jon/Gerry, fixed now.
> 
> Every week I vague about the upcoming chapter at [@drumkonwords](https://drumkonwords.tumblr.com/) so if that's your thing, check it out, I'm also working on a rec list (which I was gonna so anyway ngl) to hold you over between updates.


	3. In which A Misrememberance and a Swarm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time passes fast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Chapter's theme song: Drops of Jupiter by Train
> 
> TWs:  
> -insectophobia
> 
> Gendered and It pronouns are used for animals depending on familiarity.

Once it was dark and then it is still. It is still. For a very long time it is still.

\---

It is quiet when Martin opens his eyes. It was quiet before he opened then too, but he wasn’t awake to listen then. He smiles to himself, not softly, but still small and sweet, the morning air bleeds into his limbs like a slow chill, his lungs feeling rusty. He stretches his cheeks in a yawn, sits forward, and gives his back the same treatment, arms overhead, reveling in the release of long-held aches. His shoulders feel heavy. Martin glances around his tree, smacking his lips in an attempt to wet his mouth.

“Anabelle?” He calls, suppressing another yawn, “Not going to bother me this morning?” 

There’s no response of little footfalls. 

So Martin rolls to his knees, and clambers to his feet. He slams his hand against the wall, steadying himself against the wave of  _ wrong _ that washes over him. He gasps, as it rolls down Martin's spine like the dread of sickness. He breathes, one-two in, three-four out. Even pressing his eyes shut, it feels like Martin is looking at something he never should have seen. His stomach turns.

It’s nothing, he tells himself. Surely, it’s nothing. Tea, he thinks. Tea will make him feel better, yes.

The first pot Martin opens is never the one he needs, an inconvenient habit. The wine pot smells sweeter, more fermented, than it was the last time he checked. It must be coming along faster than expected, he ought to ask Oliver if heat speeds up the process. He nearly closes the lid, but stops himself. It  _ is  _ awfully tempting. The strangeness that buzzes through him and the dryness on his lips could be taken in one fell swoop. But no, he thinks, closing the pot, it isn’t ready. 

He reaches for the tea. The soft light bounces through Martin’s small windows and off it the green liquid. It looks back at Martin expectantly. He stares, not quite sure why he feels a pressure to do  _ something _ . He pierces its surface with the ladle, packing his uneasy thoughts away. Another thing he’d rather not think about, he’s starting an admirable collection.

Martin sips thoughtfully. Even the tea is odd, oversteeped. Martin moves to the shelf, rolling it experimentally on his tongue. He reaches for the honey, only to find the jar empty. That can’t be right. Someone must have-

“Oh, Martin!” Anabelle says, descending onto Martin’s head and digging her legs into his scalp. He shudders “Didn’t know you were coming back. That’s a shame.”

“I’ve been here.” Martin runs his free hand through his hair and plucks the scrambling spider out, Holding her in front of his face. She pries herself free from where she’s pinched between thumb and forefinger and scuttles over Martin’s palm, clearly not paying attention to his words.

“-so there will be...problems.”

“What was that?” Martin asks. Anabelle ignores him in favor of rubbing dust off of her abdomen. “Will you at least tell me how long I’ve been asleep? You know I forget.”   
  
“Four months,” Anabelle giggles. She scrambles off of Martin’s hand before he can flick her away.

Martin scoffs. He takes a breath. Then, exasperated, scoffs once more for good measure. He sips his tea.

Martin’s eyes wander over the inside of his tree. Sasha’s bedroll sits unraveled on the raised bit. Funny, Martin always wakes first when she stays. He throws his tea back and goes to put the blanket and mat away. It feels cold under fingers, as it should, it wasn’t in the sun. It feels  _ wrong _ .

He beats the feeling back again. It isn’t nice and he doesn’t like it. He ought to distract himself.

Martin usually spends his mornings weaving, but he’s eager to get out of his tree and escape the urgent buzzing in the back of his mind. He grips the honey jar tight and ducks out. 

The breeze runs it’s fingers affectionately over Martin’s cheek. For a hot moment, he feels a piercing sense of unwelcome from the forest. His shoulders creep towards his ears as Martin imagines his branches wilting, his roots drying, everything that could kill him if the forest rejected him. Martin swallows dryly at the hot panic that creeps up his neck, but when he blink’s it’s gone.

He looks at his surroundings, stupefied. The leaves rattle their applause, congratulating Martin for waking as they always do. The shadow that is Manuela falls over everything in her laid back, perceptive way. A few of Sasha’s blooms have fallen into the clearing, but the other nymphs are nowhere to be seen. Their absence isn’t menacing. That, at least, feels right.

A vaguely familiar caw sounds over head, snapping Martin back to attention, and then several less familiar. Martin looks up, but there’s no flock above him. Martin groans, spinning on his heel. His jaw drops at the sheer black  _ mass _ of birds sitting in Martin’s branches.

"What?" Martin screams "Nonononono, I did  _ not _ give you all permission to move in. Shoo, shoo!"

Martin waves his arms in the air, but it’s futile. He only manages to scare a few birds into higher branches. He’ll have to go after them.  _ Fuck. _

Martin approaches his base. He knows exactly which branch is low enough to reach, but it doesn't dismiss the anxiety, the sharp beaks and talons staring down at him. Martin has climbed other trees before, sure. Sasha taught him how in the low branches of Tim's weeping willow, but he's never tried it with competition. Martin is a big tree. He can handle the challenge. Probably.

A single crow flies down to rest on Martin’s head, it caws in triumph, pulling at the strands of his hair in an excited little dance. Martin swats at his, and it flies off. Martin watches it streak away with a mournful sigh. Then it swerves, hitting Martin in the face as it slightly miscalculates the path it needs to take to sit in his hair. It scrambles up quickly. Martin huffs.

“Look, If you want to stay there you can, but I’m not staying still for you.” He can’t see it atop his head, no matter how much he strains his eyes to look. He squares his shoulders.

Martin pulls himself onto the first branch with a strain to his pelvis, a few testing hops, and lots of squawking. A few more birds flutter their way up. One takes a curious peck at Martin’s fingers as he reaches for the next branch. The crow atop Martin’s head caws at it dangerously. It takes a pause, and flies it’s finger-nibbling self to the grass below. Martin watches it go.

“Oh. Well, thank you.” He tells the crow. it caws, probably smug.

Martin's arms do most of the work for this next bit. He's glad for it, he’s always been stronger there, even with that weight of a shitton of birds making his shoulders feel stiff. They haul him onto a larger branch, one that feels less treacherous, and swipes lightly at the stubborn ones not intimidated by just his presence. A bigger and more ambitious bird, a raven, takes a dive for Martin’s head. Talons let go of Martin’s hair, and he looks up to see his crow and the raven lock grips. 

They hardly miss him as they go spiralling past, wings tucked as they careen towards the forest floor. They get perilously close. A meter from the grass. The raven let’s go and goes to find something more interesting to do. The crow sings itself a victory hymn.

Martin lets out a breath. Birds, he thinks, just trouble.He reaches into his tree. It isn’t difficult to clear the remaining birds by giving his top branches a gentle shake. When he opens his eyes, a single crow remains, squatting on the branch in front of him. It caws.

“You’re my favorite.” Martin tells her solemnly, “I adore you. You can come back anytime if you tell the others not to come back.” 

A tilt of its feathered head.

She peers at him in a way that chills him to the core, feeling off in more ways than one. Her eyes are all black and shiny with life. Martin shouldn’t be surprised at this, but he can’t help but feel he’s missing something. He moves to swat her away, but she shuffles into his hand. The feathers at her crown are stiff, but the one’s on her back feel pleasant to the touch. Martin laughs in surprise, taking a step back to wrap one arm around his belly. He slips.

Martin shrieks. The clouds and branches blur past, before he wraps his arms around the branch he once stood on, taking the near-dislocating force to his shoulders with an “oof”. Martin gasps, catching his breath (one-two in. Three-four out.) feeling more than annoyed with himself. 

He drops with a thud. The crow flits down after him, landing on the arm he offersit as he strokes its head thoughtlessly.

Tim and Sasha aren’t in the clearing as per usual. They’re likely in the mental space. Which is fine. Fine. Martin looks away. The crow flies off. He’s running. He isn’t quite sure why he’s running, their absence feels  _ right _ . One of the only things that’s right today. A distant caw. He doesn’t slow. It doesn’t feel like running from the object of his paranoia, like some monster in the dark, but rather like running from Paranoia itself. Another caw, beside him somewhere. He doesn’t dare look back, even as a shadow passes over his shoulder.

“Martin.”   
  
“Ah!” Martin swings, he doesn’t think about it, but just finds himself spinning fist-first. Oliver ducks away easily, leaving Martin to fall rather pathetically onto his bum. 

Oliver chuckles, “Are you quite alright Martin?” he says, offering a hand.

“Yes. I just- yes. Um. Do things feel a bit off today?” 

Oliver tilts his head, “Why do you ask?” His grip is tight as he hauls Martin to his feet, swiping at the dirt on his shoulder.

“Oh, no reason.” Martin says slowly, “I’m out of honey, is all. Alice must have taken it.” 

Oliver nods.

"Well." He says, clapping Martin on the shoulder, letting his hand linger there, "You get on with that, yeah? I’m just checking on everyone. I’ll be finding you later. To talk.”

Martin swallows. He glances down at Oliver’s hand “I will be going...then.”   
  
Oliver nods once more, smiles, and drops his hand. He turns slowly, carefully relaxed, and disappears behind a tree.

Martin straightens himself, breathing deeply. There was no unsettling wrong around Oliver, but a distinct lack of it. Oliver felt safe, and that shifted something deep in Martin’s core. He stands, turns, and walks away. A panicked space behind his heart screams to run, but Martin knows, somehow Knows, that showing fear will only end badly. He tries to think about the green calm of the forest, matching his breath to the breeze, it almost works.

The beehive sits folded like silk over the branch. Bees crawl over the honey-filled hollows in a sea of tiny bodies, moving every which way. Martin could get lost just sitting there, in hours of analyzing their dances and twitches. They seem to buzz a little louder as he takes a moment to admire them.

“Hello, Janes.” Martin tells the hive “I have run out of honey. And I see you have an abundance. May I have enough to fill this jar?” He waits a beat, and places the jar against the bottom of a beehive, under a small hole he’d made for the bees to funnel honey through. 

The first bee to approach the jar wiggles it’s antennae a bit, and goes fluttering deeper into the hive. A small ooze of honey starts trickling into the jar, thinner than usual. The bee, or  _ a _ bee, or, even more accurately, several come to peer at the jar. They march in their disorganized mass up onto the glass and then keep walking onto Martin’s arm. 

Martin squeaks at the tiny limbs prickle the hands at his skin. One bee flies off, going deeper into the hive, and the rest continue to crawl around Martin’s hand. He stays very still to keep the honey jar in place, still offering barely a trickle. The bees aren’t usually touchy, offering Martin their excess so they don’t have to go through the trouble of making more comb, but not giving cuddles. They are, well, busy bees after all. Another small swarm approaches Martin, stepping onto his fingers with purpose.

“Jane, I mean, Janes, I understand if you’d like, um, cuddles or something, but maybe let me put the honey away first and I’ll come right back?” His chuckles warbles into a nervous hum.

A bee flies deeper into the hive.

The next swarm is larger. Much larger. Too many bees to count and rolling over the surface of the beehive like an army. Martin’s breath stops at the sight of it, and he forces himself to take a few deep breaths, trying not to think about accidentally inhaling one of them. 

The newest wave rolls onto Martin’s hand without hesitation, obscuring the jar entirely. It’s rude to ask a favor and then leave it out halfway (A bee flies deeper into the hive) but they aren’t exactly keeping their end of the deal. Martin bends his neck away from the Jane crawling curiously up his neck. 

Bees begin to spill from the hive. They take their time, but oh  _ forest _ -

It starts with one peculiar tickle somewhere on Martin’s forearm. The bees still. Martin lets out a breath. Then with a shutter of tiny bodies, Martin has an unpleasant introduction a truism:

Bees can chew.

The jar probably shatters, Martin isn’t paying attention. Whatever it does when Martin finally rips his hand away is muffled by the aggravated buzzing that the Hive begins. Any bee that hasn’t grabbed hold of Martin’s arm hair is thrown off with the force of him pulling away. They suspend themselves in the air with a drone of wings.

Martin desperately tries not to scream as more Janes make their way over his jaw. He dives for the forest floor, not thinking, and the bees under him pull away before impact. Pain is an afterthought.

Martin rolls. He doesn’t care how silly he looks or bother apologizing to the things he runs into. When he feels a decline of the forest floor he lets himself fall, speeding up too quickly to be comfortable and not deigning to care. 

His back hits a rock with crack and he comes to a halt, sitting with his eyes closed as the pain radiates through his body, but blessedly,  _ blessedly _ free of anything that skitters and crawls and chews. He rubs his hands down his arms and lets the pain fade away.

Martin wishes he could listen to Tim go off about his raft again, or give Melanie another weaving lesson, to go back to whenever before was and just sit in it’s peace. But they aren’t here right now. 

A muffled caw.

Martin would have drifted off there, so incredibly done with that day and it’s wrongness and antics, but the forest calls to him dully. Not in a panic, no stabbing feeling of awareness, but a dull and incessant press on Martin’s roots. He curls into the rock and the pressure increases, not painful, but too uncomfortable to sleep. Martin could just lie there, though, half awake.

Talons sink into his side as the crow touches down, biting Martin's dress and tugging. He groans.

He sits up, mourning the lack of sun-warmed stone against his back. The forest urges him back the way he came; he let’s it, foot falling over foot as the crow follows close behind.

The scent of smoke and spruce hit’s his nose, and Martin starts into a jog. Fires are bad. Fires are  _ bad _ . It blows towards Martin from just below the beehive. There’s no visible source. No yellow flame. Martin stops barely short, but the one bee that lands on him seems utterly disinterested, so he pushes forward. 

He kneels before the smoke’s source, he hesitates before it, then puts his palm up to feel. There’s no heat. Martin reaches in, the coils of gray air licking at his arm and making him cough. He fumbles until he feels a faint prickling at his skin, warmth. He reaches for it. The package he wraps his hand around is hot enough that Martin wants to drop it, but not so hot that he can’t hold it for a while before his fingers start to ash. 

He waves the smoke from his face to look at it. It’s full of pine needles, and wrapped in a burlap that looks awfully familiar, like something he could have made.The pine is wet, and the warmth inside doesn’t feel urgent. The longer he holds it, the louder the hive buzzes, going near-stillness to a flurry of short movements. Martin fumbles to put the package back beneath the beehive, and they seem to calm again. 

Martin notices a glint as he stands. There by the base of the tree, is Martin’s honey jar. It’s full.

He picks it up, examining it. Maybe the pacisfied bees decided to be nice, but for some reason, he doubts it. There are no markings on the jar, but it gives him that same, uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. Martin doesn’t look his gift horse in the mouth, and tucks the Jar into his pocket, turning promptly to leave. 

He ought to go weave something. He ought to... to be anywhere but here.

He fiddles with the honey jar in his pocket he walks. Letting this thumb trace the carefully blown glass and pushing its wooden lid until it’s almost off, then back on, only managing to get his fingers sticky. The crow opts to perch on Martin’s shoulder instead of his head. One foot keeps slipping, but with a bristle of wings that tickle Martin’s ear, it rights itself. 

Martin steps carefully over the mushrooms peeking from a rotted tree. The crow cocks it’s head. 

“What do you se-” But it’s already pulling its shoulders taught and shooting ahead. “Oh. Bye. Then.” 

Martin swipes a dollop from the space he creates between jar and lid. He licks it from his fingers thoughtfully. Tastes normal, though Martin isn’t sure a general air of murder in the hive could affect its honey. He should ask Oliver...or maybe not. 

Martin manages to duck away from the crow flying at his face his time, offering his arm for it to perch on with a laugh. It lands for just enough time to take the fabric by his shoulder between Martin’s beak and pull.

“Easy there, I’m coming.” He gives it a light, appreciative pat and moves into a trot. The crow starts cawing as he nears the clearing.

The supra-flock of corvids luckilly haven’t spread to either Tim or Sasha’s tree, but they sit on Martins.

“Uh oh.” The crow says. It preens.

Martin sighs as he stride towards his lowest branch.

\---

Martin moves more than he needs to when he weaves. He lets one of his larger looms, a simple wooden square with pegs lining the top and bottom, rest in front of him on the raised platform in his tree, sitting cross-legged at his base. He lets his torso fold forward and pull back as he warps the loom with tulip fiber. It’s undyed. Nothing fancy. He hums with the movements, no song he knows, but let’s the melody flow with the way his mood fluctuates, pitching up as he remembers something funny, and to a smooth series of droning notes as he lets his mind quiet. He makes quick, practiced work of moving the shed-stick through his warp, pulling it forward firmly. It feels good to weave.

When the sun falls golden through Martin's door, he pulls his hands away from the loom, running his hands over the fabric. Usually he’d appreciate the feel of a good few hours work, but today he’s preoccupied. The sense of wrongness that has followed him all day begins to feel a little like longing.

“Time to go!” Sasha calls outside, wrapping her knuckles on Martin’s doorway. Martin grins, almost dashing out to them. They grin at him.

"Hey!" Tim greets, pulling his hands from where it’s interlaced with Sasha’s and throwing his arms around Martin's shoulders.

"What's this for?" Martin chuckles, wrapping around Tim’s waist.

Tim squeezes tighter for a moment, and Martin can't help but relax in his arms, feeling a pleasant buzz fill him.

Sasha laughs after half a minute of stillness, and wraps her arms around Martin and Tim, moving them into a light sway. It isn’t warm. Of course it isn’t. Martin isn’t sure why he notes it, but he’s relieved to see them either way. He takes a deep breath and lets it go. He’s safe.

"Alright, boys." She says, after a moment, patting them both on the back. "We ought to get moving. Don't wanna keep Gerry waiting." 

Tim doesn't let go, waiting until Sasha pries him away to submit. She isn’t strong enough to realistically beat Tim's affection-fueled upper arm strength, but he complies anyway, giving Martin puppy eyes, he can't help but laugh.

Sasha pulls Tim out of the clearing and he reaches back for Martin, grabbing him by the wrist.

"Why are you so excited today?" Martin asks/

Tim looks back, grins, and stumbles over a root he wasn't paying attention to. 

“I’m always like this.” He calls, facing away from him.

Martin scoffs, “Yeah right! Most of the time you, what’s the word,  _ sock _ me in the shoulder and move on with it.”

Tim laughs it off, but Martin insists with a tug to the arm.

Tim’s voice falls flat. “It...It just feels like I haven’t seen you in a very long time. Is all.”

“We-”   
  
“I know what you’re going to say, it hasn’t been that long, I know, It’s just...It feels like such a long time. It feels off. But I don’t know how, or why, or...” Tim’s feet drag.

Sasha stops pulling ahead. Silently, she falls in line beside Tim, pushing under his arm to wrap one hand around his waist. 

“Thanks.”

Martin falls a few steps behind, wondering why their companionship fills him with a horrible familiarity. He tries his hardest to stuff it down. He doesn’t want to know. He knows he doesn’t. Know that sometimes the world is full of bad things and to close your eyes on them is so much better than sight. But a nagging voice at the back of Martin’s head has  _ questions _ . It wasn’t like that before. He has a root-deep feeling it won’t be going away.

He doesn’t realize he’s gotten to the river until there’s another man in his arms.

“Martin!” 

“Gerry!” Martin squeaks, lifting Gerry’s feet off the ground and giggling under his kisses.

“You’re popular today.” Sasha laughs.

Gerry hurumphs, squeezes once, and let’s Martin lower him back down. He puts his hands on either side of Martin’s face, and tugs him down a bit, planting a kiss on his forehead. Then another. Gerry places several others on his cheeks. He steps back to consider Martin’s face, and Martin feels his lashes brush his cheeks. Gerry puts one last, long kiss on Martin’s forehead with a mmmmmmwah.

Martin feels his face go warm.

“I missed you.” Gerry whispers, putting his forehead to Martin’s.

“It really hasn’t been that long.” Martin insists, feeling (and just as well sounding) breathless.

Then Gerry’s hands are gone and his body goes stiff, turning to Tim and Sasha. “I wanted to talk to you about that, actually. I woke up this morning but I don’t remember falling asleep. The last thing I remember is… it feels too long ago to put the events in order. The banks have eroded while I was gone like they always do. The rocks are just a little smaller.”   
  
“How long are we talking?” Tim asks, furrowing his brow and hugging Sasha closer.

Gerry shrugs, “Maybe four months?”

Martin bites hit tongue hard enough to hurt, and the others turn to him when he winces.

“What is it?” Sasha prompts.

“That’s what Anabelle said this morning. And you  _ know _ that she lies-”   
  
“I don’t know why you keep that infernal thing around.” Gerry scoffs.

“ _ She _ has a name. Imagine being in the forest without any other named things. No one to talk to.” 

“ _ Tough _ .” Gerry says, “But it’s not like we can do anything about sudden mass hibernation. I’ll think about it and get back to you guys.”   
  
“I’ll do some...something too. I don’t like any of this.” Sasha sighs, “But one mystery at a time. Have the fire started?” 

“Of course.”

They follow Gerry to their usual evening spot, a stone-lined alcove with a firepit at the center. Oliver let them make it with the sole condition of being near the river, which was just fine for Gerry’s needs. The nymphs sit on the raised bit of stone that surrounds the fire at a healthy distance, but they always end up sitting too close anyway. The heat makes something in Martin’s heart clench. He ignores it.

“I don’t remember the last thing I told you about…” Sasha starts, thinking, “There was the box…”   
  
“The artefact box.” Tim pipes up.

“We agreed it’s probably for storage. So artifact storage box.” Gerry says.

“Yeah, well there was a… metal string. Made of little gold loops, all chained together.”   
  
“Like a flower chain?” Martin asks.

“No, like,” Sasha puts her thumbs and pointer fingers together, interlocking the two circles they make. 

Nods all around.

“And then on the end of the chain there was this heavy thing. Also metal, like a perfectly round stone except for a peg on the bottom and an engraved “J” on one face-”

Martin needs to get something out. He hacks. After a few claps on the back from Gerry, he realizes the thing isn’t in his lungs. He stays quiet.

“You good? Yeah, so I pressed the peg and the “J” lined face opened.” Sasha throws her arms wide open. 

Tim, quite appropriately, gasps.

“And I thought I heard something so I put it into my ear and it went  _ click, clock, click, clock _ ,” Sasha makes the sound with her tongue tapping the roof of her mouth. “And when I looked it was white on the inside, and there were the numbers, one through twelve, all in a circle around it. And a stick spinning inside. There were multiple sticks and I’m pretty sure some were just spinning super slow, but I didn’t get to look long enough to see for sure.”

Sasha trails off. She doesn’t say it, but they all know. The feeling of having had this conversation before smothers the nymphs so heavily Martin is surprised the fire doesn’t putter out.

“Who killed  _ your  _ sapling, yikes, you mope-bags.”

“Manuela, you’re late.” Gerry says, He forces a smirk onto his face.

Manuela rolls her eyes at him, “Y’all’re the ones that insist on starting before sundown. You know when I can get here.” 

“Yeah but you aren’t interested in the artefacts.” Sasha points out.

“You mean ghost stories?” 

They stick their tongues out at each other. 

Manuela opts to sit next to Martin, she wiggles her eyebrows. “You promised to tell me what was going on.”

Martin sputters “What?”

“You know, that night when you were doing all the running.”   
  
Gerry sits up straighter. “What night? What happened?”   
  
“If I knew what happened I wouldn’t be asking about it.” She snarks. 

“Yeah,” Gerry sighs, “But none of us can remember anything recently. We know we’ve probably been gone a while and that’s it.”

“Mhm. It was super boring when you guys were out. I just had to sit there being...shadowy.”

“So you would tell us that you  _ do _ remember?” Tim asks, “‘Cause, you know, collective coma and whatever.”

Maneula gives Martin a sideways look, “You  _ promised- _ ”

“This is why I hate promises.”   
  
“I’m not blaming you, It’s not like you can help it, but you still owe me one.”

Martin groans.

“Let’s see, so Martin was running and he promised me he’d tell me why, and then it’s blurry, I think the moon came out. Yeah, it was night time…” She thinks. “Tim was holding something, and Gerry screamed ‘Martin!’ Dork.”

Gerry scoffs.

“Then Oliver came out of the ground, you know how he does, and he was all-” Manuela drops her voice comically low “ _ ‘Give her to me, Tim.’ _ and Tim was all weird? And then Gerry-”   
  
Oliver clears his throat, Martin nearly jumps so hard he’d send Gerry sprawling, he manages to only to tense.

“That’s enough Manuela, thank you.” Oliver smiles, white teeth glinting orange against the fire light, it would be pleasant if the muscle next to his nose wasn’t twitching, making his lip curl and uncurl. “Good to have most of you in one place. I would like you to meet someone.”

Sasha crosses her arms “And who are we meeting?”

“You’ll see. Come now.”

Gerry makes quick work of putting the fire out, grumbling about making the fire pit too damp for later. Martin rubs his shoulder.

Oliver walks stiffly as he drifts over the forest floor. Gerry leans onto Martin’s arm as they move away from the river, color draining from his face. 

It isn’t a clearing they enter, but it’s a space between trees big enough for them to fit into. A sapling sits at the center, a juniper, just under fox-sixed.

“Meet Georgie.” Oliver says with a flourish.

Sasha cocks an eyebrow, “Isn’t she a little young to have a name? Is she in the root system yet?” She kneels before the juniper. “Hello, can I touch you?” After a beat she nods, and pinches a branch between two fingers.

Sasha gasps, pulling back, and Tim is at her side in an instant, “What’s wrong? You okay?”

“Th-th-t-t-there’s.” Sasha takes a gasp of a breath, she laughs nervously “There’s a whole nymph in there?”

Oliver hums, “Due to certain circumstances, Georgie won’t be coming out of her tree any time soon. She’ll need company though, especially now when her roots aren’t in the system yet. Would you visit her for me?”

Martin nods, transfixed. He lowers Gerry onto the grass, where he sinks gratefully, and kneels next to Sasha.

He asks permission, waits a beat, and touches the tip of his finger to her branch.

Georgie curls out towards Martin slowly, consciousness tucked in the deepest part of her trunk. 

_ I do not know who you are _

_ But you are like me _

_ Oh, Oh, Oh _

_ He kept his promise _

Martin feels her feelings. Not grief, but a relief so potent it’s painful. It hits him like the sunrise sped up, and Martin is consumed with awe at the pure expanse of her consciousness. She’s old, older than anything he’s come close to knowing, maybe older than Oliver, but no one knows Oliver, really. Georgie is an ocean of experience, enveloping Martin with its vague vastness, old fear and love, and someone honey-voiced that makes Martin feel real pain, like salt on the fresh flesh left exposed with his memories carved out and discarded. Such old memories in a young thing. He mourns a little for whatever it used to be.T he little nymph stuck in her tree is the doorway to it all. The door is shut tight. Martin is almost tempted to pry it open. 

Instead he says “Hello, Georgie. My name is Martin.”   
  
_ Do you know him _

_ You know him _

_ Do you know him _

_ You don’t know him at all _

Martin forces the tears out of his eyes, “I’m not sure who you mean, but you are a sister of our forest now. We will protect you.”

Martin feels her sigh with relief as Gerry sends water through the network to her.

_ And the water? _

“The river is named Gerry. Gerry is my friend.”

_ Does Gerry know him _

_ He know him _

_ Does- _

Martin yanks his hand away, choking back a sob. It’s wrong, it’s all wrong. Wrong that brushes its fur against Martin in passing, then circles back to settle in his lap. It’s warm, and oh forest, it’s  _ warm _ .

“I will speak to you again soon, Georgie, you’re lovely.” Martin says promptly, and stands. 

Gerry pushes himself to his feet, and grabs Martin’s arm. The panic drains from Martin instantly, and he slows to make sure Gerry has a decent grip, ignoring everyone else entire. They walk back to the river in comfortable silence, Gerry strengthens as they grow near. He stands taller, and swings Martin’s hand between them. His wandering eyes mean he wants to ask a question, Martin knows, but Gerry doesn’t ask and he has no desire to answer.

Martin stops just short of the river, accepting the goodnight kiss on his cheek. He studies his feet. Gerry dives into the river. Martin trudges back to his tree, stumbling under the weight of his dread. Manuela is busy with the little one, her presence is gone. It feels right. 

Martin pushes into his tree, feeling his knees give out.

He’s too tired to look up and see the black birds staring down at him with a hundred black eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate titles:  
> -In which Martin is a victim of beesault  
> -In which Gerry gets to be more gay, as a treat  
> -In which, Oliver, the heck?  
> -CAWCAWCAWCAWCAWCAWCAWCAWCAW  
> -BZZBZZBZZBZZBZZBZZBZZ  
> -In which THis one is named jane and this one is named jane and this one is named jane and this on-  
> -It's the corruption what sound I say?  
> -In which you realize this fic is more cannon aligned than you anticipated
> 
> Note on Accuracy: Yes, bees can chew. Their natural defense against animals is stinging, but they can chew in order more move wood to make a hive in and stuff and Martin is much more tree than animal.
> 
> Every week I vague about the upcoming chapter at [@drumkonwords](https://drumkonwords.tumblr.com/) so if that's your thing, check it out, I'm also working on a rec list (which I was gonna so anyway ngl) to hold you over between updates.


	4. In which a Mapmaker Finds his Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon wakes up the next day, or a little bit before that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> theme song: mountain sound by monsters and men, suggested by Leo from the discord
> 
> TW:   
> -brief suicidal ideation  
> -depression  
> -general pain & peril  
> -brief insectophobia  
> -ornithophobia  
> -Mentions of lore
> 
> (I don't think it's that bad but use discretion)

Jon is running. He cradles the potted juniper against his sling and holds it in place with his good arm. He leans left. His leg was never quite the same after that time in his apprenticeship when he tried to climb a shelf and it fell forward onto him. The sun is setting quickly, but if he hurries he can water the juniper and be back with Martin before anyone is the wiser. He can’t let it die. He  _ promised _ Georgie, all those years ago. 

Jon presses his lips together and alters his breath. He might have a falling habit, but Jon is anything but an amateur. He can run. Hopefully, fast enough to beat the sun. It’s never ideal to meet what comes out of the dark in new places. The bite scar on Jon’s forearm would agree.

His shoulder drives hard into a tree, and he curses, before remembering himself. “My apologies.” He nods to it, waits for a beat, and continues his sprint towards the river. 

Jon’s mind wanders back to the nymph offering him his ho- Offering Jon a shelter. He considers. Broad-shouldered, Martin’s body suggests he’s had a life of manual labor, (Jon isn’t thinking about how easily Martin picked up his pack and slung it over his shoulder. He avoids the idea that the pack weighs just less than him, that Martin could easily pick him up, or catch him when he falls. Jon doesn’t think any of these things.) but none of the other nymphs have shoulders quite as broad. They aren’t human, clearly, and that’s a whole other sandstorm to endure.

But if he can keep this discovery away from Elias…

Jon isn’t a money motivated man, money is spent in  _ civilization _ . He didn’t become a cartographer to get friendly with the upper class, the opposite actually. But keeping the results of his research from Elias would be its own, special kind of pleasure. And if that happens to mean spending extra time around Martin, so be it.

“Sorry! You have beautiful leaves.” Jon says to a teenage tree he clips in passing.

He looks down at the juniper. Would Georgie be proud of him? Christ, he hopes so. He’s not quite sure if this counts as putting himself out there. He’ll just have to try harder and keep his promise, keep the tree alive and healthy. What was it she had told him? 

_ Plant this where you can trust the trees. _

That girl was fanciful, enough to tolerate Jon and his antics, but it was the last he saw of her. He’ll keep his damn promise if it’s the last thing he does.

He breaks the tree line. Two nymphs stand nearby, facing away from him. The tallest one, with pale olive skin and short black hair, gestures excitedly towards a wooden raft. The other, with a not-unhealthy looking tinge of blue in his skin, reclines on a rock and laughs. Jon uses his years of cartographer’s experience and sharp deductive reasoning called common sense to assume that one is Gerry, the river.

Jon doesn’t like people. Christ, he doesn’t like people. There weren’t supposed to be people here but he has an inkling something bad will happen if he doesn’t ask for the water. Jon thinks back to the knife curled up with Martin in bed. "If he does anything suspicious."

There are probably better ways for a man with hands like Martin's to kill him, but he isn’t trying to find out. He steels himself and marches over to the nymphs.

Jon clears his throat, approaching slowly. “Excuse me? Ah, Gerry?”

The reclining nymph turns a bright smile in Jon’s direction. His heart skitters.

The smile falls quickly melting into a frown. The nymph with a raft goes silent, letting the contraption fall to the ground. Jon’s heart goes off again, and for all the wrong reasons.

“Sor-”

“What do you have?” It’s a question, but Gerry’s voice falls flat at the end. 

Jon’s met what comes out in the night, he thinks.

He takes a few tentative steps backward, “A Potted plant. A fr- A friend gave it to me. A long time ago. I really just need water for it and then I can get out of your hair?”

“Looks like a she!” The larger nymph says unhelpfully, stalking closer, “Juniper Grande? We got one around but it ain’t got a name. My name’s Tim by the way.” Tim isn’t talking to Jon, he has his eyes locked on the Juniper. He reaches out to shake hands with a branch, smiling to himself in an ‘I’m-a-comedic-genius’ Kind of way. 

The next bit happens fast. The sun sprinting towards the horizon, the world goes dark. Tim gasps, and his face darkens. He grabs for the pot, and Jon steps back, knocking into Gerry. The river pulls Gerry in, and then he climbs out on the opposite bank, sneering. Tim Shoves Jon prone. Jon is prone. And then Jon's promise, one he's kept for years, one he'd gotten _ so close _ to fulfilling, is pulled from his arms. Ice crawls up towards Jon's neck in nasty points. He can’t move his body. Tim holds Georgie's last wish above him like a prize. 

Jon hears Martin's voice and  _ nearly _ feels relieved.

But it isn't Jon's name he's calling.

Martin's eyes fall on Gerry across the river, Gerry who's screaming something Jon feels too defeated to comprehend. 

"Give her to me Tim." Comes the dangerous, velvet voice of the man who fixed up Jon's arm, Oliver.

Martin's face goes slack, he crumbles to the forest floor. Tim steps off of Jon and ambles towards where Oliver stands so regally, staring at Jon with a mix of disgust and disappointment.

Tim hands over the plant pot and collapses at Oliver's feet. Oliver steps over him easily.

"Care to explain how you got this?" Oliver muses from here he looks down at Jon.

Jon presses his lips together hard.

"Well," Oliver says, bored. "Enjoy defrosting in your own time." He turns to stalk back into the forest, clearly in no hurry.

Jon's stomach clenches in panic, "You said,  _ You said  _ you didn't want me to freeze tonight. You gave me your word." 

Oliver pauses, throwing a look over his shoulder. He smiles. "I lied. And, ah. Next time? Stay away from my nymphs."

\---

The night is cold and long. Jon tries to consider where he went wrong as the ice sends shocks and prickles through his skin. He's eternally grateful he shrugged on his jacket (as best as he could with the one arm) before he left the tree, limiting exposure. Chances are he won't die here. Even if he does, someone will find him eventually. Experienced explorers aren't exactly disposable labor.  _ Elias _ quite likes his little pet. 

The night is the worst part as Jons feels his pulse reduce from thundering in his ears to a meek, fleeting rhythm he isn’t quite sure is still there. He could be dead. It’s an honest-to-god possibility. But what would Basira say? ‘I think therefore I am’. He isn’t dead, no. Basira would give him grief from beyond the grave if he let himself die when ‘You could just, like, not.’ 

So he lets himself fall into the drowsiness he knows to be the early stages of hypothermia, trying desperately not to panic about the fact. He can worry in the morning. 

Because he is oh, so tired.

\---

Martin isn’t there when Jon wakes up. For that matter, all the nymphs have disappeared. The river is sun-warmed and carries bits of ice away. Jon shudders as a thick bead of water trails down his neck. He manages to push himself up, thin ice cracking against him. He leans on his good arm and feels a horrible amalgamation of pins and needles and pain and tingles. He sits forward with a start, cradling frost-nipped fingers in his lap. Jon winces. Hands utterly useless, he kicks his legs free. It takes a few good tries to break the ice, but he manages to scoot to more solid ground and stand, shivering. 

The forest is pretty. The sun glints golden off the damp ground around him, and Jon can feel it prickle lazily against his skin, but he isn’t safe here. He needs to warm up, warmth means fire, fire needs a lighter. At least he has somewhere to go. 

He pulls his compass from his pants pocket, his fingers aching. A crack runs up its face, fluid leaking, the needle lulls uselessly inside. Jon presses his thumb against the crack with as much force as he can endure and looks around.

He really has no idea where he’s going, and he doesn’t have his pack. Martin is gone. Martin didn’t care anyway, he was just some person Jon ran into. Kind enough, but no stranger should be held to that high a standard. Jon tries not to linger on the thought, Georgie would  _ not _ be proud of him. 

She wouldn’t be proud of him either way. He lost the tree. He lost the last trace of his first friend.

Jon sits and hangs his head. With his hands out of commission, he can’t even hide his face as it burns with shame. Maybe he’ll just wither, go out spiting Oliver and his godforsaken forest. It’ll come if he just stays still for long enough. 

There’s a caw nearby. Corvidae. Jon knows the sound. 

Jon reaches for the pencil that isn’t at his belt as he looks up at it. A common crow hops towards him. It tilts it’s head curiously and takes a step closer.

“Caw?” 

“Yes, Good morning. I’m well.”

“Caw.”   
  


“Well okay. Not well, but I will  _ be _ well.” Jon sighs. He's been got. He gave his word, to a  _ bird  _ but nonetheless. He has to at least try. He offers the bird his good–his better– arm, curling the fingers in. 

The crow approaches slowly, turning profile to examine, and then bite Jon’s sleeve, tugging at it playfully. Jon can’t help but laugh.

“You’re the nicest one I’ve met here, young crow. I wouldn’t suppose you know where my bag is?”

A tilt of the head, “ra….” 

The crow gives an excited flap of its wings, turns, and flits off, landing a couple of feet away. It looks over its shoulder at Jon, but not the way Oliver did, rather kindly. It jerks its beak towards the tree line.

“I suppose that’s a yes?”

“Caw!” 

“Can you understand me?”

“Caw!”҅ 

“Well...after you, then.” 

Even in the shade of the trees, the crow stays in sight, Making herself heard if she ever perches out of Jon’s view. When Jon crumples against a tree ( not without asking first, of course) it lands in Jon’s hair, grounding him against the pain shooting through his rewarming fingers. 

It’s slow going, but Jon makes it out into the three nymph’s clearing. The crow dips behind Martin’s curtain, and Jon stops entirely. He imagines Martin inside, sipping a cup of tea, still wrapped up in his blanket. Would Martin smile at him again, like he did at (what could generously be called) Jon’s bedside, reaching to tuck Jon’s hair behind his ear? Or would he give that same, cold look Gerry did?

Jon’s stomach turns over. Martin did leave him to freeze, after all.

Jon pushes in. He doesn’t see Martin, but he does see his pack leaning against the wall. He beelines for it, shooing the crow that sits atop it. She doesn’t move.

“I can’t hold you if that’s what you want. Hop up?” He leans his shoulder in towards it. The crow opts for his head, gripping into his hair. Jon laughs “You good there?” He tips his head around, but the crow doesn’t do more than flutter for balance.

“Caw!”

“Alright then!” Jon eyes his pack. He won’t be able to dig around with a bad hand, at least not comfortably, and he can’t carry it with only one good arm  _ Damn _ . He takes a breath to prepare himself for the pain of using a half-frozen hand. 

“ _ Caw. _ ” The young crow chastises, distinctly annoyed. It jumps from Jon’s head and onto the pack, unbuttoning the top with its beak, and pulling it open with a flutter of wings.

“Oh! You can...crow. Right.” Jon thinks. “I need a  _ small _ and  _ grey _ box. It has a spider web on it. You know what a web is, yea?”

“Caw!” It saws, burying its face in his stuff, moving past a change of clothes. It stands up again with a silver glint in its beak. 

“Yes!” Jon exclaims, forgetting himself. “Can you carry it?” 

It shakes its head experimentally, and when the lighter doesn’t slip says “ Aa.”

Jon holds the curtain open with his forearm, letting the bird slip out. He looks around “I know I’m not supposed to make a fire around here but I’d rather anger some aggressively absent Nymphs than die of not being able to do anything for myself. If I could ju-”

The crow starts off again. Jon shrugs.

He follows it back towards the river, upstream from where the ice has all either melted away or floated off, to a stone-walled alcove carved into the ground. A fire pit in the center. Jon gives the crow a grin.

“I really should have known, you know. You probably don’t, actually. But I should have. A forest-bound people without a distinct place to keep their fire would be...dead. Probably.” He barks a laugh. “anywho.”

He spots a bucket, clay with a sturdy handle, and loops it over his arm. There’s a large pot, one that fits clearly in the fire pit and smells strongly of mint, but Jon can’t figure out how to pick it up in his state. He leaves it where he is.

The river is a few strides away, Jon squats down next to it. “May I please have some water?”

The river just burbles.

Jon knows he shouldn’t be disappointed, knowing how things went last time. The knowledge doesn’t help.

It takes a lot of awful bending, but Jon manages to pull his compass back out with his splinted hand. He shakes it over the pile of dry grass the crow gathered from nearby, letting the flammable liquid have a last use. The bucket goes on top, then, taking the Lighter into his splinted hand, he flips the cap open, watching the flame dance to life. “Thank god for mister Zippo, Am I right?”

The crow blinks.

Jon shakes his head at it and leans to put flame to kindling. It takes easily. 

He lets out a breath of relief, collapsing onto one of the fire pit’s benches. He doesn’t realize how damp his clothes are until they’re pressed against the back of his thighs, he curses and shrugs out of the jacket hanging on his one arm. He leaves the rest for later, approaching the bucket on the fire. He dips his fingers in curiously, and hisses, pulling away.

“Caw?”

“No, no. I’m fine. This part hurts.” Jon sinks his hand into the water, biting his tongue hard enough to draw blood. When he starts stirring, forming an easy vortex in the water, he gives up on trying to be quiet. Tears spring to his eyes as his other hand curls into a fist, but Jon doesn’t stop. 

The pain begins to fade after a few minutes, enough for Jon to acknowledge the tangible warmth in the water. He keeps going, his fingers prune, and after what he guesses is twenty minutes, Jon pulls his hand away, breathing a sigh of relief.

He gives the crow a forced smile, “So... ah, do you come here often?” 

An unimpressed caw.

“Yes, I know, I  _ know _ . I’m not out in the wilderness for my people skills.”

“Caw.”

“Bird skills? Didn’t mean to erase your avian identity, apologies. Do you have a name?”

“Caw!”

“Mmm. Male or female associated?” He cringes, both at his hand and the stupidity of the question.

“Masculine?”

Silence.

“Feminine?”

“Caw!”

“Abigail, betty, Clarice, uh...Denizen? I don’t know any feminine D-Names.” It goes on. Jon sticks his hand in the water again, expressing to the unamused crow that being named “Lily” would be counter-intuitive. When he pulls his hand out the water and flexes it, it feels significantly better. By the time they settle on Jane, he can pet the crow comfortably. 

“Well, Jane. I’m not sure you count as a lady, but if you do, I apologize in advance.” Jon stands, and shrugs his shirt over his head, wiggling it the rest of the way off his splinted arm. He lays it out on a bench, before doing the same with his undershirt. 

He sinks onto the packed-clay floor of the alcove in just his pants, sprawling out in the warmth of the sun. Georgie would, in fact, be proud, he decides. It’s a good day. 

“Maybe Martin didn’t have as terrible priorities as I believed.” Jon remarks to the crow leaning curiously over his face, “Because I’m going to sleep.”

\---

“Are you still around?” Jon calls. It’s mid, maybe early afternoon when he pushes himself up. He makes quick work of redressing, trying in vain to brush out the folds in his heinously wrinkled clothes.

“Caw!” Jane preens lazily. When She pulls her beak from the crook of her wing, she adds, “Caw?” 

“I’m remembering some stories I heard once, you know. If I...if I cut down these trees will they die? That sounds dumb. Is there a way for me to gather wood without getting anyone angrier at me?”

“Caw.” 

“Thought so.” Jon sighs, “Without getting anyone  _ excluding Oliver _ angrier at me.”

“Caw!” 

Jon grins. 

They return to Martin’s tree. Jane lands on a lumpy bedroll, picking at it with her beak and making cries that go from insistent to mournful, before joining Jon at his pack. He pulls out his hatchet and a ball of twine, eyes fixed on his hand, and looking nowhere else. 

The next bit is a longer walk. Jane leads him across the river, which is scary, but not difficult to wade through at a shallow bit, and into a clearing. Most of it is absolutely coated in a growth of indigo, but a space towards the far end is flat. A couple of crows fly away as Jon approaches. Jane swoops to snatch a small stick from the beak of one of the birds there, and Jon realizes they’ve gathered a bed of dried leaves and grass for him. 

“You didn’t hav- ah, Thank you.” He reaches to stroke over Janes feathers, “This was very kind of you.”

It isn’t easy to chop down the series of dead saplings that Jane leads him to, though some of the fallen ones he only has to drag. By the time he’s piled enough to start getting to work, the sun is setting. Jon wipes the sweat from his brow. And follows Jane back to the tree.

He sleeps just inside the door, knowing full well he isn’t welcome here anymore.

\---

“Do I have to ask for this one?” Jon asks, placing his basket on the edge of the clay deposit. He pokes at it. Looks good.

“Caw.”

Jon nods, picking pieces into the poorly-made wicker basket that gave him so much trouble, he briefly considered stealing something from Martin’s tree. His hatchet isn’t the ideal tool for the job, but it works just fine, especially seeing as he forgot his survival shovel at home. Oops.

“Do you plan on taking a mate?” Jon asks idly.

Jane ignores the question, hopping in a circle.

“Fair enough.” Jon goes silent, listening to Jane softly chatter to herself. He braces the basket against his hip as he stands, letting Jane lead him to the river so he can wet the clay, and then to a deposit of sand. He mixes it in slowly, adding “Mhm,” and “Yes, very,” whenever Jane pauses her monologue and tilts her head at him. It’s a routine, even as Jon gets to know his way around, Jane leads him where he needs to go, and one of them talks the time away. 

Jon makes his way back to the hut. It’s coming along nicely, not like last time. Digging himself from a pile of collapsed sticks and leaves was unpleasant, but this one has held up to a few day’s use. He could easily be done with it by now, it’s comfortable enough, but he won’t be able to go a long distance until he has use of both arms. Taking notes on the immediate area will only take so long. Therefore, Jon opts to spruce up his place. A clay tile floor wouldn’t hurt anyone. Just extra insulation.

He lowers himself in his part of the clearing, next to the square wooden mold he prepared earlier. Leaning into the repetitive motion of pressing clay into it.

Jon knows something’s wrong when Jane flies off his shoulder and hides in the crown of a nearby tree. He looks up slowly, “Get out.” 

“This is my forest.” Oliver intones, raising an eyebrow.

“And This is my clearing. I said get out.”

“Nobody gave you the right to stay, but I suppose I didn’t give you the right to use my food supply as a  _ house _ either.” Oliver crosses his legs as he sinks to the floor, “I just have some questions, is all.”

“But I don’t have any answers. None I plan on giving you.” Jon pats the clay he’s working into its frame, pointedly not looking at Oliver.

“Are you sure? I thought you would have loved to tell Georgie’s story, she seemed so important to you.”

“How do you know about Geo-” Jon takes a breath. He’s being baited. “No. I owe you nothing. Especially after you left me out there.”

“Only after I fixed your arm.”

Jon scoffs. "And the nymphs?"

Oliver ignores the question, “It’d be a shame if I were to force it out of you,” he says. He leans back on his arms as he talks, looking at the sky as if he’s about to say ‘That one looks like a bunny rabbit!’

Jon sneers, running a flat stick over the top of the mold to level. He thinks boredly back to Basira. He’s survived far worse threats from his closest friend. “Try me.” 

“Alright! I do enjoy learning new things.”

There’s a  _ thump. _ Jon finally looks up to see fungus curling around a thick, leather-bound volume. It sinks into the earth.

“An Encyclopedia of species.” Jon recites. He pulls the mold from the tile and moves on to making another right beside it. “I’ve read that cover to cover five times a year _ or more _ since I was, mmm, ten yeas old? Same with all of the books in my pack. You can destroy the copies, sure. No use for it. Have anything else? Anything better? You could try to wrestle me for it.” Jon snorts.

“I could kill you and absorb the information from the dying flashes of life inside your head.”

“But you won’t.”

“Hmm, No. I won’t.”

“Because I  _ taste unpleasant _ .” Jon gives him a look you might give a stubborn child.

Oliver pauses. He smirks. “Sure.” and walks away. 

“Caw?”

“Nothing worth the retelling,” Jon says. He presses clay into his mold.

\---

Jon scratches at his beard. Then, he raises his other hand to do the same, just for the nuance of it. The scraps of splint sit at Jon’s feet, and he stomps on them with satisfaction.

“If you can hear me, Oliver, fuck you.”

Nothing happens, but Jon didn’t expect it to.

He stretches his arms overhead, fingers interlaced. “How am I looking?”

Jane caws, impressed. 

“Well Miss Compass, I can finally go get my stuff. Won’t ever have to go back to that tree.” Jane tilts her head at him. He ignores it. “Then I just have to scout this place out and I can go home.”

Jon pauses.

“I can...Go home.” He looks around his clearing, from his hut to the bench he set up outside of it, a special perch for Jane erected nearby from when the feeling of feathers against his neck became too much. There’s the simple smoker he built to make jerky with, and a larger pot of water that takes ages to fill, but means he won’t have to go all the way to the river to bathe. He’s even gotten better at basket-making in the three months that have passed. He hadn’t done any mapping work. He pretends he isn’t putting it off, but now he doesn’t have much of an excuse. 

He looks to Jane, “You could come with me, you know. A pet crow wouldn’t be the oddest thing I’m known for.”

“Caw?”

“Okay, pet is a stretch. But I can’t exactly introduce you as my business partner at parties.” Jon laughs sadly, “What do you say?”

Jane tilts her head, preens, and tilts her head again.

“‘S alright. You don’t have to answer now. No pressure.” Jon pushes down the disappointment and stands. “Off to the tree, then?”

“Caw!” 

Jane flies a straight-shot now. It’s like a race between the two as Jon ducks expertly through the trees, not stumbling even once. It’s easier with his other hand to balance, and he takes the chance of vaulting over a fallen log instead of taking the time to move around it. It feels freeing, Jon laughs merrily as he runs.

The mood doesn’t die, but it bubbles down as he nears the Three Nymph’s clearing. It has an air like a hospital. Not one in crisis, not sickly and dangerous, but politely mournful. Like Jon should keep his happiness quiet to not wake the patients. 

He passes his pack as he steps into the tree. It’s the last time he’ll be coming around, so screw it, he’ll take a look. Jon pockets an empty jar that doesn’t look like it’s getting much use. He almost feels bad. 

Jane lands on a lumpy bedroll, tugging on the blanket. She caws.

“Pointing me somewhere, MIss Compass?” 

“Caw!” 

Jon stalks over. He hadn’t remembered seeing cushions in the tree when he stayed here, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any. Martin wouldn’t mind one cushion disappearing, if he’s even still alive. Jon sighs. As angry as the nymph might be (though somewhere deep down Jons doubt Martin has a single angry bone-if he had bones-in his body. And he's wrong.) it would be worth the relief Jon could give his hips. He offers his arm for Jane to hop up onto, she does. Jon pulls back the blanket with a flourish.

Jon lowers the blanket. 

“Caw?”

He walks slowly, with tense steps, to his pack. It’s lighter now with all the things taken out of it, or maybe Jon’s gotten stronger in his time here. He ignores Jane’s nipping protest as he pulls the straps onto his back, turning away. She caws at him incessantly, flapping in the air behind him. 

“Are you coming to guide me, Miss Compass?” There’s no reply. He didn’t expect one. “Hm. Well, I doubt he’s waking up, and when he does I don’t think he’ll be very happy with me.”

“Caw.” She pulls back Martin’s blanket with her beak, Jon sees a glint of metal.

Jon furrows his brow, “What a peculiar response.” 

Jane hops aside as Jon approaches, pulling a knife from Martin’s relaxed hands. He turns it over. It’s weighty, sharp, far too sharp for someone to be sleeping with, but what draws his attention the most is a familiar engraved letter “J” on the handle in a circle of vines, leaves, and other embellishments. The crest of Elias’s great-grandfather. 

Jonah Magnus put the symbol on everything before he disappeared, he didn’t tell his wife or son where he was going. From the rumors Jon’s heard, Magnus had a family for insurance if nothing else. 

So he was here. That explains some things, at least. Not how a whole forest seemed to appear, sprawling over the would-be plains, in a ridiculous amount of time. But it’s a start. 

Maybe Elias was right. Maybe this whole expedition is a mistake in the maps, a simple clerical error, and it was all a waste of time. Jon imagines the man’s smug smile if he’d return empty-handed. Jon turns over the knife once more and tucks it into his belt. He turns to leave.

“Caw?”

“I’m very sorry, Jane, but I’m leaving.” He says, running his finger against the doorway, not caring about the splinters, he’s dealt with plenty of those already. “I’m not...No. I’m leaving now, thank you for all your help. You’re always welcome.” 

He bends to offer his finger to the crow with a sad smile. “I promise.” They shake on it.

Jon ducks out of the tree. 

He looks at the ground as he walks. The forest, in all of its beauty, it’s high-society-like sensibilities, it’s people and it’s horror–because some things do hunt and stalk out in the night, they leave Jon rabbits sometimes–looks somber today. Jon feels shameful he’s the one that made it so.

But the nymph, soft skin dusted with the colors of leaves and pollen, that sleeps soundly in his tree was too much,  _ too much _ for what should have been a day of victory. 

Was Martin here all along? 

Who abandoned who?

Jon bites his lip. He won’t avoid the thought, he  _ can’t _ avoid the thought, not with a mind like his that screams and scrambles for every tidbit of knowledge. No, he’ll figure it out. But not today. Today he may have lost another friend. Georgie would… Georgie would give him that sad look. The worst thing he’s seen on her face.

Jon enters his clearing. He registers the feeling of safety that comes with being in one’s own space, but just barely. He sits on his bench. He shrugs off his pack and leans it against the outside wall of his hut. He looks around, his clearing is empty, it’s always empty, but now it’s pervaded by a distinct, a  _ thick _ cloud of loneliness. The perch by Jon’s shoulder sits empty. 

He puts his head into his hands. He cries.

\---

Jon still visits Jane at Martin’s tree some days. Not every day. He’s busy trying to see how the water level of the river fluctuates and ruminating, or sketching leaves and ruminating. Some days he doesn’t leave his hut at all. But that’s perfectly alright. There isn’t anything of value much worth doing.

Jon briefly considers practicing his tree climbing.

He decides against it.

Today is one of those days he visits Jane. She sits in the branches of Martin’s crown, trying to scare off the rest of the birds that have decided to claim Martin’s home as their own recently. Jane is a fierce defender, but still just one crow, and a small one at that, against an entire flock, a flock of flocks, all kinds of corvids claim the place. Jon throws stones, too small and too slow to do anything but scare a bird, but it’s hardly effective. Jane keeps dragging him to a low branch and tugging his shirt up. Jon reminds her of the broken arm, and that he is not a climber. Then Jane squawks angrily and refuses to speak to him. The routine is almost comforting now. Now Jon can ruminate  _ with _ Jane. Efficient. 

Today, He approaches the bird who regards him sideways, beak held high, and is about to say hello when-

“Anabelle?”

Jon turns tail on instinct and sprints towards the cover of foliage, crouching behind a tree. He asks it very nicely not to tell anyone he’s there. Only then does he place the voice. Martin.

Jon waits a while, maybe ten minutes before the nymph steps out of his tree, he looks groggy for a second, blond strands falling onto his face. He tenses. A pause. Looks up. Turns around.

Jon giggles when he hears Martin’s yelling, and watches from afar as the nymph bumbles into the branches of his tree, scaring away the birds. Jane fights a raven and wins, good for her. Then he screams, trips, and catches himself on a branch, much like he had when Jon first saw him. Jon dismissed it as a delusion and walked away, but the repeating reality is as comedic as it is softly beautiful.

Martin drops to the ground and Jane sits smugly in his, now a literal, nest of hair. 

It only hits Jon then. Martin is not only alive but awake. The ginormous scar that makes Jon nearly wretch with curiosity idles down the length of Martin’s face and neck, disappearing behind the dress that’s far finer than anything the nymphs have woven. Jon kicks himself, he probably stared back when he first met Martin, biting his tongue on the intrusive question of “what?” and “how?”. The scar might even be traumatic, a poor opening to talking with your hosts.

Jon’s fingers itch for his pencil but the feeling seems unimportant under the thundering of his heart. And if Martin is up, what of Gerry? And...that one nymph with the sharp jaw whose name Jon can’t quite remember. 

Martin grips something in his hand and walks out of the clearing. Jon follows.

He’s quicker on his feet with practice, and quieter now that Jane isn’t there to guide him away from hazards. He keeps pace with the trotting nymph well enough. 

He spots Oliver approaching from behind while Martin is still unaware.

Martin swings, lands on his ass, and Oliver dodges easily. 

They speak. Jon isn’t listening to anything but the angry feeling in his gut when Oliver hauls Martin to his feet. The look of mistrust in Martin’s eyes is clear.

Jon doesn’t follow Oliver when he walks away, keeping his eye on Martin. The nymph approaches a beehive, one Jon quite likes. It took him by surprise the first time he asked for honey and it started dribbling from the bottom (which was infinitely less stressful than the idea of cutting away at their home and squeezing the honey out). It left his hands sticky for hours. The bees aren’t docile, not to him. But the stings don't bother him too much. He made a smoking bundle the next time. 

They seem to quite like the nymph, though, crawling up onto his palm. Martin makes a sound that has Jon covering his grin with his hand. He forces the smile away.

More bees approach Martin, who chuckles nervously and rolls his arm in an effort to shake them off. Nothing. Jon realizes something is wrong when the Nymphs squawks and rips his hand away. Martin dives for the forest floor, dropping his honey jar entirely. He rolls- Martin  _ rolls _ away, disappearing down a decline. 

Jon...doesn’t know what to think about that. 

He lights a smoking bundle cautiously, wrapping it up as the kindle and pine takes. The bees don’t seem particularly interested when he approaches, crouching without taking his eyes off the hive to retrieve Martin’s jar. He puts the bundle under the beehive. They don’t give him trouble. 

He puts a handkerchief to his mouth for the smoke. “May I have some honey, please?” The trickle starts, and Jon puts the jar underneath, watching it fill. It all feels mundane. What was that nymph on? “Thank you.” 

The caps the jar and places it next to his smoking bundle. Martin might find it, he might not, but Jon’s indulged his fancy for long enough. He turns to head home.

\---

“Agh! Jesus!” Jon shoots up from where he was sleeping, quite comfortably thank you very much, and swats at the crow that just bit him on the nose. “What?”

“Caw?” Jane says, her feathers are out of place.

Jon rubs his face groggily. The world has the soft blue light of almost-sunrise. He groans. “Somethin’ wrong?” 

“Caw!”

“Hm. And I suppose this has to do with Martin?”

“Caw!” She flaps, excitedly.

Jon rolls over to go back to sleep. He cries out when Jane gives him an ear piercing with her beak. Could be quite stylish, he thinks through the pain. Jon takes a shaking breath. He reaches to grab Jane prying her away. She lets go of his ear and allows herself to be held up in front of Jon’s face. 

“I can see that this is important to you, so what do you need?”

“Caw!” Jane struggles in his grasp and he lets her go. 

She flies to Jonah’s knife, picking it up as best she can by the handle and dragging it towards Jon. He gets the idea and picks it up. Without another sound, Jane ducks out Jon’s open door. He follows. 

The crow shoots off in the direction of the three Nymph’s clearing, Jon Flips the knife so he can hold the blade as safely as possible against his palm, and shoots off into a run after her. His body is going to regret going from sleep to full tilt in a matter of minutes, but he has a feeling it will be the least of his problems.

Jane ducks and swerves, Flying expertly in the low breeze, dodging trees, and Jon follows with similar grace. There is no birdsong this morning. Jon greets the trees in passing, they do not greet him back, but he understands. The knife is sharp against his palm, but he doesn’t let it cut him. Jon breathes in the god’s ichor that is morning air and lets it burn through his body. 

Jane, in her own way, asked this of him, Martin needs whatever help requires Jon bring a knife, and Jon, he admits to himself, needs this too. 

Because he cares.

Jon hears the three nymph’s clearing before he sees it. A thundering like a million clotheslines in a windstorm. Jane stops just short of the cloud of black, landing on a branch and cawing mournfully. She looks back at Jon.

It takes his eyes a moment to process the sheer amount of birds and bugs all flying in a whirlwind around the clearing. Jon pulls his jacket across his mouth and nose, and steps through.

It isn’t a thick wall of bodies, it doesn’t take much effort, but he earns a few scratches across the face for his trouble. His jacket tears at the shoulder against a talon. Even through his clothes, and multiplied tenfold on his skin that isn’t covered, Jon has that creeping, panicked feeling of  _ things _ , tiny things, small but dangerous, things that eat and breed and poison, crawling under his skin.

It’s gone as quickly as it came, and Jon’s in the clearing. He can smell the threat coming off of her, but she’s almost beautiful in her own way. Snow-pale skin and hair that starts as feathers and flows into stretched-straight strands. Black feathers cover her body from chest to ankle and fly wings, too small to use but there, protrude from her shoulder blades. Her arms are outstretched and she speaks with a forced-casual tone, her back to Jon but loud enough for him to hear anyway.

“Martin, don’t give me that! You didn’t need it, you were  _ gone _ and I was  _ here _ . It’s a simple matter of distribution. I’m sure Oliver would agree.”

“Yeah! But I’m here now, and if you try and- and  _ nest _ in my tree then I will  _ die _ !”

“Oh it won’t be all that bad, it’s for the greater good. Won’t you just let me inside?”

“No, Jane!”

Jon crouches, it won’t hide him well but nonetheless. The sees Martin with his back to his tree, pressed up against the entrance, face red and brow furrowed but fine for now. He hasn’t seen Jon. 

“What if I said please?” The woman, apparently Jane says

Jon turns the knife around in his hand.

“I said no, and your behavior is  _ incredibly _ rude. I might even call you  _ uncouth _ !” Martin spits the words like an insult.

The woman only laughs, “You think I care about the silly rules of this forest? Fewer of us obey them than you might think, even your precious Oli-” She sputters.

Jon pulls the knife from the small of her back. He places a hand on her shoulder and stabs her again. There’s no blood. When he brings the knife in a third time, he pierces only a collapsing pile of feathers. The whirlwind surrounding them isn’t violent in its dispersing, but the sound dies almost instantly. A swarm becomes just birds and bugs. Birdsong begins.

Jon’s breath is ragged. He scratches his beard and looks down at the knife. It’s clean, but he wipes the blade on his pants anyway.

Martin, dear Martin who he’d been so purposefully not looking at,  _ shrieks _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alt titles:  
> -In which I question if bearded jon counts as a DILF  
> -In which I write another fic where Jon stalks Martin but in a good way?  
> -In which hello cannon my old frieeeeend *symbols*  
> -In which Jon finally shanks a bitch i'm SO happy i get to write casual stabbing  
> -In which I SWEAR the lore makes sense bare with me  
> -In which I question if bearded jon counts as an otter  
> -In which Jon gets a personality and it's "sad"  
> -In which the guy you thought was fake was real so why not bond with a bird?  
> -In which I WOULD DIE FOR THIS BIRD I LOVE HER SM
> 
> Note on accuracy:  
> I used this tumblr post as a reference for Jon's hypothermia, and frostbite and Charlie from the discord was also helpful about it! I toned down the severity a bit, because i didn't wanna be too graphic, and because i can't kill jon, etc. TDLR; Cold reaction is semi-realistic. Don't get encased in ice, kids
> 
> This Chapter was pretty hard for me to get through, though I'm not sure why. I'm really proud of it, though! And I hope you enjoy the extra length! Comments and Kudos are always appreciated!
> 
> Somethings must remain a mystery, but if you're curious about lore shoot me an ask [here](https://drumkonwords.tumblr.com/) or comment a question below! Thanks for reading!!!


	5. In Which A Coming and A Going

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Manuela reaches for power, and Martin meets someone new

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's theme song is Many Moons by Janelle Monae
> 
> TW:  
> -death(murder)  
> -distress & peril  
> -Permanent injury of sorts  
> -General guilt and depression  
> -(this chapter genuinely has angst in it, not like the others)

  
The wind beats hard outside of Martin’s tree when he wakes up. The light is grey. A storm. 

Tim and Sasha press into his consciousness, the twin forces that stole him from slumber in the first place. They always check on Martin during storms, but he’s over it now. The lightning that gave him his scar was a very long time ago. He tells them so, shutting his consciousness from their concern, and turns back over to sleep.

\---

The light is still gray when he wakes up again. The wind beats harder, a cacophony of things clapping and brushing against each other fills his ears. Martin groans, knowing he isn’t tired enough to sleep through it. He rolls over, coming nose to nose with a crow. 

Martin smiles, “Why, hel...wait,you’re not-” Martin sits up. There’s another one, on his shelf, and a group of three working to get his tea pot open. The one next to Martin gives him a nip on the arm. He glares at it. 

“Oh-oh, Martin!” Comes a cheery voice from outside, “Didn’t get your eviction notice?”

Martin scrambles to his feet, tripping on the hem on his dress, “Shit. Oh fuck, excuse me. Fuck!” 

He manages to make himself stand with something like decorum and ducks out of his door. Jane Prentis circles his tree, stretching her legs in long easy strides. She stops when she sees Martin, leaning lazily to one side. 

She points at the tree, “I believe this is mine now.”

Martin arches an eyebrow, “I’m...alive, though? And when I die Oliver gets the tree, you know this.”

“Mhm, mhm, but what if you’re asleep? Free game as far as I’m concerned. I didn’t think you’d be awake for this part but,” She shrugs, “I’ve waited long enough.” 

_ Martin, bud? _

He pushes Tim away. 

“That isn’t how this works.”

“Martin, don’t give me that! You didn’t need it, you were  _ gone _ and I was  _ here _ . It’s a simple matter of distribution. I’m sure Oliver would agree.” She bends at the waist, giving him a  _ duh  _ look as her arms hang in front of her.

“Yeah! But I’m here now, and if you try and- and  _ nest _ in my tree then I will  _ die _ !”

“Oh it won’t be all that bad, it’s for the greater good. Won’t you just let me inside?”

“No, Jane!”

Martin sets his stance, sinking back onto heels. 

_ Martin! _

_ Not now, Sasha! _

He knows he can’t take Jane. That’s the whole point of a swarm, evolving far beyond an individual. And Oliver can’t save him. There’s more than one kind of decay.

He closes his roots off entirely from the incessant pressing of the other nymphs’ consciousnesses. If he’s going to die anyway, they might as well make it through. Melanie will be upset, but she’ll get over it. they all have to know death sometime, to know it is necessary. They all had Danny’s sacrifice to teach them. But he’s going down fighting, that’s well within his rights.

Jane gives his stance a once-over, “What if I said please?”

“I said no, and your behavior is  _ incredibly _ rude. I might even call you  _ uncouth _ !” 

She tips her head back and cackles, “You think I care about the silly rules of this forest? Fewer of us obey them than you might think, even your precious Oli-”

The man behind Jane keeps his eyes trained on the small of her back, his face severe. 

Martin can only stare as Jane’s face contorts from coy to surprise, to agonized  _ fury _ . The skin next to one eye folds into a wince, and she snarls, staring straight at Martin.

Then the swarm is dead. Black feathers drift to the ground, nothing more than the sum of its parts. Each individual bird, fly, and bee scatter from where they surround the clearing in their gray-black whirlwind. They won’t survive like that. And, oh  _ forests _ , that means the spiders will start dying too, oh no, oh-

Martin locks eyes with the man cleaning something that looks wickedly sharp against his shirt, and it’s  _ wrong wrong wrong _ .

Martin doesn’t hear himself scream.

Sound feels distant, as if he’s underwater. He lets his body fall when Sasha drags him down, putting herself between Martin and the man. 

The images, maybe their memories, feel vivid. Like he was there, seeing the same sights behind his eyes. They’re all blurry, like Melanie’s angry swipes at the dirt when she doesn’t like her sketches, but the colors are so bright. Martin’s reminded of what he’d see as a child, challenging Sasha to see who could spin around the longest without falling over from the dizziness.

Tim’s yelling something, and just as quickly as silent as the night. Sasha gives Martin a reassuring pat on the cheek, she’d looking in his eyes, but Martin isn’t quite registering it. She stands to look over.

Something in Martin desperately wants to come out, like the little strands of rhyming words that sometimes itch at the inside of Martin’s skull until he goes to recite them to Gerry, but he doesn’t quite know what it is. It’s  _ right there _ .

Martin could just ignore the thoughts, he’s good at that, he does it often, but as Martin’s eyes finally focus on where the man holds his metal object, pointing to something on it and talking slowly to Sasha, he realizes he doesn’t want to. Martin wants to know. He  _ must _ know. 

Martin pushes to his feet slowly, moving to stand just behind Tim. The man glances up at him, then looks away just as quickly, his brow furrowing.

“So the J comes from Jonah?” Sasha asks.

“Exactly, Jonah was-”   
  
“Excuse me.” Martin says, not bothering to wait for the go-ahead, “He killed Jane?”

“Yeah, but he was defending you and he’s allowed to do that.” Tim shrugs him off, “So this is a knife? What’s it made of? What is it used for? Besides stabbing, I mean.”

“Well-”

“Jonah founded your comp-nee, right? What’s that? What is founding? Tell me more about Jonah.”

Martin’s never matched Tim’s and Sasha’s curiosity, that’s why they get along better with each other. Ricocheting ideas off conversations that accelerate until they’re impossible to follow. He’s never been the type to ask questions, but now all he wants to know is  _ why _ . Martin’s eyes feel brighter, wide with the need to know. He slips in front of Tim, staring at, staring  _ through _ the man who goes tongue-tied under the sheer mass of questions. They lock eyes. The man goes silent.

“What is your name?” Martin asks. The man’s eyes are big, brown and filled with something almost like shock. He glances away, tongue darting over his lips, and looks back at Martin.

“I’m, ah-” he hardly more than whispers, “My name is Jonathan Sims. I’m a cart- I make maps. You can call me Jon.” 

He reaches out a hand and Martin takes it, shaking firmly. 

Sasha puts her hand on top of theirs, “Go team?”

Martin giggles. 

“What do you say, Time for some ghost stories?” Tim asks, throwing his arm over Sasha’s shoulders. 

“They’re not ghost stories!”

“Doesn’t matter. We gotta have a meeting, set up an investigation party. Sounds fun!”

Sasha grabs for Jon’s wrist and tugs him along, striding off, “And while we walk you can answer my questions.”

Jon shoots a look back at Martin, smiling apologetically. Tim takes Martin by the shoulders.

“I don’t like that look, Tim.”

“Oh,  _ no _ . I’m not thinking about anything.” Tim winks, glancing to check that Sasha’s dragged Jon far enough, he leans in. “You’re blushing.”

“Am not!” Martin says, struggling out of Tim’s grasp.

Tim throws his hands in the air, “Sure! It’s nothing. It’s just that you get this very specific smile when you see Gerry, you know, like you’re trying to smile and frown at the same time and look like you just ate a lemon-- Yeah! Kinda like that but more smiley.”

Martin glares.   
  


Tim laughs, “Forget about it. I wonder if Jon knows my latin name?  _ Oh _ !” Tim tenses with excitement, before shooting off after Sasha, mumbling about holes in his knowledge. 

Martin takes a breath and goes after him.

“Salix Babylonica.” Jon is telling Tim when Martin finally catches up. Sasha has slowed them to a strolling pace, but hasn’t let go of Jon’s wrist where she swings it idly between them. Jon doesn’t pay it any attention.

Tim’s voice drops low, eyes wide, “ _ So cool. _ ”

“Do me?” Sasha asks.

“Malus floribunda.” Jon recites.

Sasha squeals, she gives Tim a fist bump. “The coolest.”

Tim spots Martin first, waving him over. “Martin’s a sycamore.” He tells Jon, earning an exasperated look.

“Yes, I’m well aware.” His eyes flick over Martin features, losing all of his previous nervousness in a favor of studious irritation, “Platanus occidentalis. I could confirm if Oliver hadn’t eaten my encyclopedia. You’ll just have to take my word for it.”

“Encyclopedia?” Tim asks.

“Big book with all the species in it. Information and such.” Jon’s already lost interest, looking at their surroundings with a furrow in his brow. He doesn’t notice the tick developing on Tim’s face. 

“You’re telling me you have a big book of  _ all _ the species, the  _ one _ thing I want to know all about, all in one place, and Oliver  _ ate _ it.”

Sasha winces.

“Yes. Inconvenient.” Jon says, he stops walking, “We’re going to the river.”

“Yeah…” Martin looks between the three of them, watching Jon teeth at his lower lip (oh,  _ oh _ ) and the red that crawls up Tim’s neck, he’s nearby steaming, Sasha seems torn between second-hand anger and concern. 

“I don’t like him.” Gerry says. Martin jumps at his sudden appearance, “I feel tired just looking at him.”

“Yes, that sounds about right. Hello Gerry.” Jon nods in greeting.

“Who is he.” Gerry looks at Martin,  _ Martin _ for forest sakes, He never knows anything. At least he doesn’t look angry, “ He broke Tim?”

“You can’t, just, ah-” Martin fumbles, “Jon. His name is Jon, and  _ why don’t you just ask him _ .”

“I don’t like him.” Gerry restates, “I’ve  _ forgotten _ exactly why.”

Martin’s mouth forms a line. “You can hate him all you want, but I’d be dead without him. So.”

Gerry’s eyebrows crawl upward.

Sasha takes a breath, “Prentis wanted to take Martin’s tree, Jon stabbed her with this.” She holds up the knife. 

Jon pats his pockets, frowning. He sighs, “Can I have that back please?”

Gerry takes the knife from Sasha before she can reply, studying the blade.

“Yeah, same ‘J’ symbol on the watch--the, ah, the smooth stone with the ticking sound? It’s called a watch, Jon knows all about that kind of stuff. He’s gonna help us out, right Jon?”

Her grip is tight on Jon’s wrist, “Ah, right-”

“Oliver,” Tim growls, “Has eaten, or destroyed or-- or something. He made Jon’s book go away. It had so much information in it.” Tim’s anger has bubbled down like someone turned the fire off, his face is twisted in a mask of disappointment. Sasha abandons Jon to move to Tim’s side. 

Gerry frowns, “Oliver  _ does _ have a habit of limiting our access to information…”

“I remember almost everything if it helps?” Jon asks, pulling his shoulders forward.

Gerry nods tersely “Firepit.” 

Sasha guides Tim past where Gerry stands like a sentry, no, something more powerful than that. A knight, maybe, from the stories. His eyes are bright and his hair is long, his dress flows light and blue around his body, down to his ankles. 

Jon tries to step past. Gerry reaches for his wrist, pulling Jon’s hand up and interlacing their fingers in one quick motion. Jon exhales, barely a gasp.

It’s a sight, Gerry looks at Martin in challenge, and he’s  _ trying _ not to smile, because Gerry’s frowning so Martin should be too, or something. But the look of shock on Jon’s face, and Gerry’s frustrated frown, and their hands interlaced, it’s adorable. 

Martin must look like he’s swallowed a lemon. 

Gerry scoffs, turning to give Jon a slow once over. His face twitches unreadably and he pivots to march after Tim and Sasha. Leaving them both in stunned silence.

Jon shuts his open mouth, and follows. 

Martin feels stupid stumbling after everybody.  Platanus Accidentalus is right. He’s messed up, Gerry’s angry at him, if only he knew  _ why.  _

His curiosity rears his head dangerously.

Martin heads for the fire pit.

  
  
  
  


Manuela hears her name, somewhere by the river. Her existence feels viscous and slow. She’s hearing her name. It takes a while for the urgency to register in her mind, and even then she doesn’t do anything about it. Moving her limbs would require forming them in the first place. The light presses her shadow down. She could just stay here, sleep, maybe. There’s her name again. Is that Martin’s voice?

Manuela’s frustration trickles in, it takes  _ minutes _ for her to realize she wants to be out  _ there _ and she’s stuck in  _ here _ . She lets out a  _ long  _ huff. Barely faster than gravity, she manages to coalesce into at least her two eyes, she keeps them shut tightly against the sun. The rest of her comes after.  _ Forest, _ she’ll be smaller than she’d like, but-

“Manuela!” definitely Martin’s voice, clearer now that her ears have formed.

Her size will have to do.

Manuela steps into the world, the clay floor of the firepit is familiar under her feet. Martin holds the lid of a pot a few inches above the ground for her, it’s just enough shade for her to exist. 

Martin offer her his hand to step up onto, holding the lid steadily above her head. She takes his offers.

“Oh, Hello!” Manuela can’t see, but there’s a smile in his tone. There always is. “I wouldn’t call you in the daytime if it wasn’t really important, but I did make you a promise, afterall.”

“What’s going on? I can’t see, can’t open my eyes.” She feels Martin move, and presumably sit down as she lowers.

“So everyone’s here, and there’s a human man and his name is Jon. Say hi Jon.”

“I don’t exactly see who or why-”

“Jon knows all about, well, plenty of things, And Tim and Sasha are here, and Gerry too!”

“Hello Manuela!” comes Sasha’s voice, cherrilly cutting through generally upset grumbling.

“Ah, Manuela, like the shade? I think I took notes, just right here- ah, left them at-- well. Is she small because it’s day or is she always like that?”

The air around her feels distinctly warmer, and there’s added darkness. She dares to pry one eye open, looking into a massive brown iris. “Hello to you too.” She snarks. 

Martin moves away from the man, and she closes her eyes back.

Martin's voice makes the flesh of his hand vibrate almost imperceptibly when he says, "I made you a promise, yes? Jon knows what happened. Jon?"

The unfamiliar voice gives a deep sigh, "It was Oliver."

The story starts solemn. A cold, confused night, a loneliness, but it grows steadier. Jon learns to run, feel the wind against his face. The information isn’t useful, but the way he spins the story is so compelling Manuela almost wants to step out into the light for a chance to see his face. She’s distinctly irritated at the fact that she can’t.

Then Jon tells of the bird he’d met, Jane, Jane the compass, (Having a brid that functions outside of The Swarm says something interesting about Daisy’s foxes, but that’s a curiosity for another day) leading him to Martin’s tree. He fumbles over the logic that lead him to killing Jane.

“She seemed threatening. And therefore…” He trails off. 

Martin starts speaking, but Tim beats him to the punch. “The plant your friend gave you. The one I stole,” He shows no shame in the fact, “ What was its species?”

“Juniper grande. Why?”

Tim whistles low. 

“And!” Sasha says, in the tone that means she’s having trouble staying in her seat, “And! Oh, what was you friend’s name?”

“It was Georgie,  _ why _ ?”

The nymphs take a collective deep breath.

“That has to mean-”

“-Something, right?”

“Yes! Not enough-”

“-information to go off of. but -”

“Jon has-”

Tim and Sasha fall silent, having reached their conclusion. 

“Care to walk the rest of us through that?” Martin huffs, _ “I need a nap _ .”

“Tell us about Georgie.” Sasha and Tim say in unison. 

“The one you knew.” Sasha adds.

“Alright? It was so long ago.” A thoughtful pause, “We were kids. She came to my house to play most days. It was...I mean we were just kids? It’s not like I had many friends out in the middle of nowhere.”

He takes a deep breath, Manuela wishes she could see his face. There’s something there. Something she’s missing. “You know, I didn’t grow up too far from here. You can imagine my surprise when I came back and there was a forest here...The forest I grew up with burned down. My parents died trying to save it, as if they could do anything. Georgie’s home was in the forest somewhere, she never let me see. And she ran out of the  _ fire _ with a stick in her hand and watched me plant it and made me make that- that- the promise.  _ Plant this where you can trust the trees. Don’t let it die. _ And then she ran back into the fire.”

“Then I think the people my grandmother sent took a week or two to find me.” He clears his throat, humming a happy note that doesn’t do a thing to lighten the mood. 

Manuela knows Oliver's voice as soon as it comes, she feels her blood begin to boil at the sound. 

“I’ll have to thank you all.” He says, a chuckle in his tone, “I couldn’t get the story out of him myself. Though I remember saying to stay away from  _ my nymphs _ .” 

Martin squeaks, and Manuela hardly has time to react before she’s sent back into the ether of her mind. It takes a minute, but she manages to pull herself together enough to see. 

Oliver grips Martin’s wrist, and the poor nymph looks too scared to do anything but let him. Tim and Sasha are halfway to standing, eye’s bouncing between Martin and each other. Gerry’s expression is carefully neutral, but his eyes are narrowed.

Jon’s eyes are puffy, but he’s wearing the frown of a man who’s got no time for tears. Before Manuela's eyes, his spine uncurls, and he looks at Oliver, who stands above him, with an air of haughty disgust.

Oliver’s speaking, the end of each sentence making one of them flinch. That’s the decay, isn’t it? It always manages to get in somehow, and then it burrows and kills what isn’t already dead. Manuela comes from  _ life _ . She’s the biproduct of what grows and flourishes in the crown. She is the shadow of life, how  _ dare _ he?

Jon’s speaking, and then he’s standing and  _ screaming _ . Manuela wishes he had the energy to hear, but it’s just after noon, there’s no chance. Tim stumbles, his eyes glazing over for just a moment with horrible familiarity. Jon falls silent. He turns and strides off.

Tim _ snarls _ , Sasha has to hold him back. Oliver, having made his point, turns to leave. 

Martin curls in on himself, holding his wrist, staring down at his palm. Manuela can read the word he repeats to his empty hand.  _ Sorry _ .

Gerry stares, but doesn’t reach out to help.

Mournfully, Manuela waits for the sun to go down.

\---

Manuela knows the meta-space better than the other nymphs, sunlight is less of a worry. Maybe it would be less boring if anyone bothered to visit her, but they don’t. She sits and waits for the day when the forest grows enough that she can sit around at noon with the rest of them and eat fruit and laugh, whenever that day is. 

Or maybe Oliver will kill them all before she gets the chance. 

Manuela walks the brown and silver halls of the root system.  _ Other  _ people get rooms here, she thinks, forcing down the bitterness. Her goal is forward.

She reaches the great chasm that is Gerry, staring into it’s slow running, crystal clear waters. All of his essence and none of his minerals. She turns to look back at what she can see. The air grows dark as it goes down, Maxwell’s overlarge domain. Wispy strings of fungus hang from the roots that reach up from the darkness, up into ginormous trees, the size of the spirit and not of the being, that float unsuspended from the sky that moves at a dizzying speed overhead, like the clouds are watching. 

Manuela follows the river west, where she knows she’ll find him. She doesn’t knock.

“What the  _ fuck _ , Oliver?”

His head snaps up from where he pours over a thick tome,  _ an encyclopedia of species _ . His face sours when he sees her. “Need something, Manuela?”   
  
“Answers, maybe. You told me if I just waited for the nymphs to grow that I'd be stronger. And now you’re threatening them. Why?”

“You have no proof I threatened them.”

“Oh would you can it?”

Oliver gives her an amused half-smile, not saying a word.

“What do you want?”

“What do we all want?” Oliver asks, he shuts the books and places it facedown on the table, clasping his now free hands together and reclining. “To live. To eat. To grow. To die, eventually. Happy?”

Her face twitches, “No.”

“Then what are you going to do about it, Hm? I tell all my nymphs to face their problems head on.”

“Martin sleeps, Tim and Sasha are too enthralled with each other and the  _ big picture _ to see what’s sitting on their noses, and Gerry thinks himself in circles all day because  _ you _ refuse him any more information about Mary. So I imagine you didn’t teach that lesson so hard, hm?” 

He gives her translucent form a once-over. “I might be inclined to divulge something if you posed a threat. But you don’t have the energy, now do you.”

It takes all of Manuelas strength to force herself not to lunge at him. Her chair falls onto it’s back with how quickly she stands. “ _ You! _ I will-I will- Will!” She can feel herself flickering. She doesn’t have the energy to maintain her anger, not even here. 

“Thank you for your insight.” She spits, “I  _ will _ be seeing you again.”

Oliver gives her a closed mouth smile, already reaching for his book.

_ Pose a threat _ , Manuela thinks as she marches through the meta-space, she isn't sure where she’s going, she doesn’t belong anywhere.  _ Pose a threat, pose a threat, pose- _

She throws herself back when she feels her foot slip of the ledge into Gerry’s chasm, landing on her butt. She takes a breath, it would have taken her days to recover from that fall. 

Then she gets an idea. 

Manuela turns her back to the water of the chasm, feet firm on the rooted walkway. She takes a step, and then another, faster one. The walkway ends before she’s at sprinting speed. 

Manuela dives.

The good thing about Maxwell's domain is that it's too dark for her to even care if she's translucent. The dark of the soil, the underground, probably the closest to a home she'll get.

"Maxwell!"

Her voice echoes off walls she knows aren't there. The effect is nice. Manuela doesn't see the sky when she looks up. She crosses her arms.

"Maxwell you old cuck, I'm calling you!"

Silence.

"Manuel-"

"Ah!” She says, spinning to the voice. Her hand brushes the wrinkled skin of his face, invisible in the dark. She immediately straightens, "Nice of you to join me."

Maxwell chuckles, it's wheezing and shuddering, filling Manuela with old memories.

"Oh, my girl. It's been so long!" He reaches out to hug her, as he always would. Manuela side steps it easily. 

"Don't be like that, come say hi to your old man."

"Hi." Manuela wrinkles her nose. "Don't talk like you're my dad."

"Oliver raised the nymphs up there, I raised you-"

"Hardly!" she scoffs, "Learning to walk when you even see your feet-  _ hah! _ And don't act like Oliver is some great role model either.”

A pause. Maxwell's tone goes flat. "How much do you know?"

"What?"

"Oh, nothing my dear," He says, merry again, "We're not like them, now we are? You could have at least visited. It gets lonely down here."

"You  _ could _ just go to the surface."

Maxwell hisses in through his teeth, "And face the sun? Hardly worth this mindless generation's company."

He puts his hand on Manuela's shoulder, "But you're not like that, are you, dear? I'm sure there are things you've  _ figured out _ ."

Manuela pries his hand away, not deigning to answer. Instead, she says "I'm claiming the darkness."

"Excuse me?" 

"I am,  _ claiming _ the darkness. Not the shadow, darkness. Mine now."

"But my dear, that will kill me. I will cease to exist, do you understand? You younguns-"

"I know exactly what is happening here." Manuela can  _ feel _ herself coalescing. 

_ Prove a threat _ .

"I of the shadow-"

" _ Don't!" _

"After all these years, do you really have the strength to deny me? This is what happens when you let yourself waste away. Even darkness can't exist without a little light, hmm?" Maxwell can't see the grin growing on her face, because finally,  _ finally _ she'll have the strength to eat fruit at noon, her own space to go home to, she might even watch the sun rise. Finally, she'll pose a thr-

" _ Don't. _ " Maxwell says again, this time he lunges.

Manuela isn't a fighter, she doesn't, couldn't, wrestle with the other nymphs. She's thrown onto her back with the force of Maxwell's body. He closes his fingers around her throat, his grip strength that of the gentile. He tries, at least. He really tries.

"I of the shadow-" Manuela says, ignoring Maxwell's cries and he shakes her, knuckles cracking, wailing meaninglessly as he fades into nothing, not even darkness, not even light, " _ I of the shadow, Manuela, Claim this place and this darkness as my own, with it I am forcing out Maxwell Reiner, on the clause that the Darkness is an entity of youth and revitalization, and Maxwell no longer supports his purpose. I claim this place for my own. I am in my place. _ "

Manuela couldn't see before. She couldn't see Maxwell because of a simple and total lack of light.

Now Manuela just can't see. Light or no. Maxwell isn't there for her to turn a blind eye to. Manuela smiles.

She stumbles toher feet, taking a moment to orient herself. Going back up into the meta-space is as simple as a snap. She hears the sound of Gerry's waters burbling to her left, which means she's facing east. Manuela gets down on her hands and knees, feeling for the edge of the walkway. She crawls in what she hopes is a familiar direction.

Manuela laughs, she doesn't stop laughing. Beginning with a snort, and then a giggle, and then a series of such bubbling up from her chest despite how she tries to suppress them. At some point, she collapses onto her stomach, howling deliriously. She wipes the tears from her eyes and keeps crawling.

She isn't sure which of the nymph's tree she's knocking on, but she knocks anyway.

"Hello-oh?" Sasha calls, "Oh my. Oh. Manuela? Manuela are you okay?"

Manuela looks up in a direction that is  _ probably _ Sasha's, and smiles.

"I killed him."

"Ha-...Come inside."

Sasha helps Manuela to her feet and leads her slowly into the tree, kicking the debris known to linger on Sasha's floor out of their way. She lowers Manuela into a chair, cooing meaninglessly things like, "Hey, now." and "You're alright." 

Manuela's face starts to hurt with the force of her smile. She can feel tears running down her cheeks. She isn't quite sure why.

"Do you want some tea?" Sasha asks.

"I killed him'"

"Oh dear."

Sasha gets tea anyways, pressing Manuela's shaking fingers around the cup. "Drink, then tell me what happened. Take your time."

Manuela doesn't taste what she pours down her throat without pause. She takes a deep inhale, and goes to put down the empty cup, only to realize she isn't quite sure where it would go. Sasha takes it from her gently.

Sasha was always so beautiful, all curved, bubbly features and sharp eyes. Manuela wishes she'd given her one last look. She wishes she could remember Sasha's face.

"Alright now, darling," Sasha says softly, she takes Manuela's hand in her own, which makes Manuela startle violently before she realizes what's happening. Sasha exaggerates her breathing to bring Manuela down. "Tell me what happened. In your own time."

"Oliver said I was  _ weak _ ." Manuela spits, " I wanted information and he didn't think- he didn't- I was so  _ angry _ . I was so- so-  _ So! _ "

"Shh, slow down. Do you want more tea?"

Manuela nods, and waits impatiently until the glass is pushed back into her hands. She drinks it all.

"I went down into the Darkness and I killed Maxwell. I took his source. I am not  _ weak _ anymore, Sasha! Look at me!  _ Please _ ."

"You're solid." Sasha notes, "But Manuela, that was a bad thing to do. Jane tried to do that to Martin."

"That was  _ Martin _ . It's different. And besides, it's not like Maxwell would die naturally, it's not like I could wait for him out. I didn't take anything from  _ Oliver. _ " His name, she says with the appropriate disgust.

Sasha hums. "I guess? There's nothing we can do about it now, so."

"Good riddance."

Silence.

Manuela  _ thinks _ . She thinks a lot. Part of her knows she should feel bad, knows that Gerry would give her a disappointed look and assure her what she did was wrong. But it doesn't feel wrong. It's not like she can see Gerry's face anyways.

The first sob wracks her body.

Isn't it a morbid relief? She won't have to see how they'll look at her, now. But she'll  _ know _ . She'll  _ feel _ it still. 

Martin certainly won't care, and Tim won't react any stronger than Sasha, that she knows for a fact. And sure, nobody cared about Maxwell, but that doesn't make what she did right. Is she evil, now? Does she deserve Jon's knife?

And  _ forest _ , she'll miss their faces. Miss the burst of platonic love when Martin shows his dimples and Gerry tosses back his hair the way he does before a punchline. 

She'll never get to see little Melanie all grown up.

She bites her lip hard enough for it to hurt, it does nothing to quiet her. Sasha's arms fall around her. Manuela feels nothing but shame at the spike of fear she feels at the touch, as if Maxwell might come back to make her feel what she did to him. It would be horrible. _She_ _is horrible_.

Manuela grabs the back of Sasha's back for dear life, praying to creation that she might be forgiven. 

"I won't ever see the sunrise."

The fact that it saddens her more deeply than the death of the man who raised her sends Manuela spiraling right back into guilt.

" _ I'm sorry _ ."

\-------

Martin wakes up in the fire pit, feeling pathetic. Of all places to fall asleep.

Jon walked off at Oliver's command, And Gerry left with a glare that said not to follow. Sasha and Tim must have still been talking when he nodded off. Oh,  _ forest. _ There he is being useless as always, but at least he remembers what happened.

Right?

He can't answer that question, not right now. He needs to find Jon. That's good, that's a start. He has so many questions. Martin stands and dusts himself off. If only he knew where Jon actually  _ lives _ . 

Martin reaches into the roots, but the trees interest in Jon has long faded. He picks a direction, straight across the river which he remembers seeing Jon cross, and starts off. 

The night is cool the breeze neither aggressive nor still, a day's worth of sweat crests Martin's brow. Martin can feel Gerry's disapproval lapping at his shins. He crosses the river quickly.

Martin doesn't move very fast. He  _ can _ , but he far prefers to stroll. Fill his lungs to bursting with night air before exhaling so far me might collapse, feeling out the full extent of his living. He clambers slowly over a fallen tree that Might take Tim half a second to vault, but the fact doesn't bother him.

Martin yawns. He really ought to find Jon quickly. The faster he can ask his questions, the faster he can get some  _ real _ sleep.

Martin startles at the hand on his shoulder, "Jon?"

The woman is not Jon.

She regards him with her mouth pressed into a line.She withdraws her hand, dusts it idly on her coat, and reaches it out again for a shake. 

"My name is Basira Hussian, I am an explorer and a hunter and I am looking for my colleague Jonathan Sims." Basira Drops her hand when Martin doesn't take it, tugging her headdress down at the forehead. "You know him?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I FORGOT TO UPDATE THIS MORNING!  
> My day starts at 6 am and then I got a hair cut (At home, ofc. I had pretty long hair but my sister buzzed it and the andro vibe is real) and aldalsdnvaslasdf SORRY! But yeah!  
> This fic hasn't updated in a few weeks, and I said so on my tumblr, but in case you don't follow me there, School started, I got new furniture etc. and then a got some Big Sad, but I'm good and writing now! Changing the update schedule to every two weeks! Thanks for bearing with me, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter! No alternative titles today because I'm genuinely too busy to write them out.  
> Comments and Kudos appreciated as always! They really just make my day, but lurkers & guests, I love you too.


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